


Love Thy Enemy...

by ConstantineMK, Mischief11



Series: Love and War [3]
Category: The Three Musketeers (2011)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-05
Updated: 2017-12-20
Packaged: 2018-03-16 02:38:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 71,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3471275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConstantineMK/pseuds/ConstantineMK, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mischief11/pseuds/Mischief11
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Musketeers have arrived back in France in time to prevent a war and D'Artagnan is well on his way to being a Musketeer but he has a secret: Buckingham is his soul mate and a enemy of France. Little does D'Artagnan know is that Buckingham is hot on his trail and will not stop until he has him back in England with him. With Milady coming back from the dead and the Cardinal looking for revenge as Buckingham bears down upon him D'Artagnan will be in for a adventure like he never dreamed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [write love on my skin](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1835587) by [amusewithaview](https://archiveofourown.org/users/amusewithaview/pseuds/amusewithaview). 



> Inspired by SmallWitch.  
> My thanks to my amazing co-writer ConstantineMk who has been a miracle worker.  
> Nothing belongs to me.

D'Artagnan tucked himself into his bed early after returning from the King's ball. There was only so much he could stomach watching the king dance and laugh lovingly with his wife and soul mate Queen Anne when his own (He found him!) was in England and was probably cursing his very existence. God, it was hard to even think about! His mate was the Duke of Buckingham, the second most powerful in England and personal enemy to his friends. D'Artagnan could not name one thing he could have done to deserve such a pairing that would make his dreams of being a musketeer impossible to achieve. If he chose to go and live in England than he would be leaving everything behind to join his mate in a country that bore no love for his. He could be forever banished from France and Athos, Porthos, and Aramis might consider him a enemy even worst than Milady when it comes to light. And he knew it would because this was far to big to keep hidden forever. He did not know why destiny would bind a poor and common French boy with one of the greatest English man on Earth when there was no way that they could have a happy ending. D'Artagnan heart grew to feel heavier in his chest with each second as horrible possibilities flashed through his eyes and his eyes grew wet with tears that ran down his face to soak the pillow below. He took all the childhood dreams he had of starting a new life in Paris with his mate, adopting children and raising them with his mate and becoming the greatest Musketeer the world has seen with his mate by his side and threw it out the window into the gutter below. He wished he was a small child back at Gascony sitting on his father's knee in their humble home hearing some of his wise advice that never did him wrong. The words on his arm tingled and D'Artagnan closed his eyes now knowing who was causing it and hurting all the more for it. 

________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Buckingham paced back and forth along the deck of his ship as it underwent repairs so that it could one day make the voyage staight towards the heart of France where his treasure waited. To say that he was conflicted would be a understatement. He found his mate after 18 years of waiting. The boy might be French and poor but by the King's crown he was pretty. Slim figured with wavy hair and big expressive eyes that was burning with fire and life. His voice was like honey and smooth while he moved like the angels guided his very steps. His patience has been justly rewarded to be paired with such a magnificent creature and he was so close that Buckingham could have reached out and touched him. There was no point in trying to deny it because as soon as the boy had turned his head and looked him in the eye every part of him screamed that the boy was his. All the things he ever prepared to say seemed insufficient and just when he picked the words that made him seem less like a idiot the room exploded into fire. Athos (curse him straight to hell) put a hole in his palace, injured his men, took one of his ships and above all took his mate. He would see Athos burned to ashes for he could have let go of anything but taking his mate Buckingham could never forgive. It almost seem poetic considering he took his mate from him with just a better offer than what France gave. 

"You wanted to see me?" 

Milady's voice cut through the night air and Buckingham turned to see her leaning against the door while still wearing the same dress she had when his men fished him out of the water.

_Speak of the devil and he shall appear._ Buckingham thought as he took a closer study of her now she did not look half drowned. Milady was a extremely beautiful woman but she paled in comparison to his young mate. Her hair was to bright next to his chocolate brown and her eyes were to shaded and calculating next to his innocent and awed filled eyes. She has been in France and would surely know about his mate that traveled and followed hers.

"The Musketeers were expecting every move I made. I can't help but wonder how they knew."

She stepped back and watched him wearily and Buckingham could clearly see her mind thinking and discarding replies faster than a new hooker changed clients. "I did not betray you. They must have expected I would tell you their movements and changed accordingly." 

"Maybe. You did not tell me that they added one to their group." He knew better than to be open with his inquires and reveal what he really wanted to know.

Her faced scrunched in thought before clearing with realization. "You must mean the young Gascon. I did not think of him as much as a threat nor was I sure he was even going to be involved." 

"Well, he was a excellent diversion and I would not be fooled again. Tell me everything you know about him and his relationship with the Musketeers." Only a fool would just tell someone as unpredictable with their loyally and as cold as ice to not blink when faced with the fact their mate would be killed as Milady about their other half. 

She stared at him for a moment and he knew she was trying to read him. Buckingham made sure to keep himself as blank as possible as she sized him up before she seem to give up and answer him. "He is a farm boy from a small distant town called Gascony. He traveled to Paris no less than seven days ago and appears to have befriended not only the Musketeers but maybe even the king himself. The boy is hotheaded, prideful, impulsive and young. There is not much more I can say."

Buckingham watched her movements not believing she told him anything but not wanting to give away how desperate he was for information. After a few moments he dismissed her and turned back to the ocean and the words branded in his flesh started to tingle. Without thinking he gently rubbed his fingers over the words and started to croon softly to his mate. "Sssh. Soon I'm coming to bring you home."


	2. Chapter 2

The sound of the crows calling early in the morning was a unwelcome sound to D'Artagnan's ear as it meant that not only did he have to face the day but all the decisions he had to make. A feeling of homesickness came over him and he felt more alone than he ever did back on his father's remote farm. What could he possibly do? How could he share this with his parents? What would they think of him? What would his friends think of him? D'Artagnan remembered how Athos raised a gun to his former comrade Milady who he also suspected was Athos's soulmate. If Athos would shoot his other half than what could he do to the one who he just began to trust but was paired with the man who bought his soul mate from him? No, Athos was not just a friend but a king's musketeer and D'Artagnan's ally. Would Athos not understand that you can not control who you are partnered with and it was destiny trying to get its kicks by pairing him with France's most dangerous enemy? Coming to the conclusion that his thoughts was not helping the situation but was making him more jumpy D'Artagnan ripped the sheets off and jumped out of bed to rush to his window and breathe in the cool spring air. Hearing the streets of Paris slowly come alive helped to pull his attention away from his rocky love life and help him appreciate that he was still alive after all the excitement that happened in the last few days and that he has proved himself before France and king. Now if only his...better half would not destroy everything he has started to build for himself and maybe stay in England forever. Fighting down a chuckle as his own childish thinking D'Artagnan began to dress and brush his teeth as the sounds of Planchet banging around in the kitchen to make breakfast echoed throughout the house. He slowly crossed back to the window and leaned against the sill until the sound of shouting cut through the air almost making him fall out of it. 

"SHUT UP, PLANCHET! ANY LOUDER AND THE DEAD WILL HEAR YOU!” 

“Sorry, sir! I was just trying to make-”

‘I DON’T CARE! KEEP IT DOWN BEFORE YOU ARE SLEEPING ON THE PORCH!” 

D’Artagnan shook his head at Porthos and turned from the window to head downstairs to help poor Planchet before his friend could make good on his threat. No matter his problems they won’t answer themselves if he walked around on an empty stomach. Walking out the door he almost ran into a slightly groggy Athos who simply grumbled at him to watch where he was going before heading downstairs to the main area and completely obvious to the chaos raging inside his head. Fighting down the lump in his throat he slowly followed after the older man down the stairs to where Planchet was just putting breakfast on the table. A movement out the corner of his eye revealed that Aramis was already there placing an open bible on the edge of the table with a rosary on top of it. 

“Good morning, gentlemen.* Aramis said in greeting as he took a chair near the fireplace and placed his glasses on his face before picking up the bible . Athos grumbled a reply and D’Artgnan swallowed the lump in his throat to give a quiet greeting to the two men as Porthos came stomping down the stairs. Ignoring them Porthos reached for some bread on the table and his hand was immediately smacked away by Aramis who gave him a warning glare over the top of his glasses. Porthos gave him a glare of his own and grumbled threats under his breathe but leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. D'Artgnan looked confused at Athos who was watching the wine bottle on the table with a hungry expression as Aramis turned the pages in the bible until he found something he wanted and began to speak. "Isaiah 40: 31 reads 'but those who hope in the LORD will renew their strength. They will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not be faint.' Blessed be the name of the lord." Aramis closed the bible as he and the other men crossed themselves and Porthos once again reached for the bread without incident

"You know we need to talk about what to do next now that the immediate danger with the queen is out the way.* Athos announced as he poured himself a cup of wine and picked some meat up from the platter on the table. Looking up from the pear he was chewing on D'Artgnan blinked in confusion as the older men around him as they started to discuss plans of battle and pick at the food on the table in greater numbers.

"Do next about what? The cardinal's threat about us regretting not taking his offer?" He asked turning to each of the older men in turn as he moved onto to the biscuits. Porthos did not answer as his mouth was full and Athos shook his head at him. "You do not believe that what happened was the end of it? Do not be so naïve." Aramis slightly nudged him with elbow before turning back to him with a patient smile. "I am referring to Buckingham and the fact he certainly is planing to come against us. It would take him about a year to be fully engaged but he will come. We must be prepared for- are you alright?" D'Artgnan held up his hand to say he was fine as the biscuit he was eating got caught in his throat at the mention of his soulmate and any future interactions with him. Finally managing to clear his air ways he looked up to see three pairs of eyes looking at him with a vary of expressions from concern to amusement. 

"Sorry, I just...I will...Excuse me." He sprang up from his seat and quickly went up the stairs in a pace he hoped was dignified and locked himself in his room. How could he be so stupid to forget about the fact that they stole Buckingham's ship and blasted a hole in his palace? No one would just take that lying down especially Buckingham from Athos. How could he even hope to maybe cross blades with him in the future when just hearing his name almost sends him to meet his maker? 

As if he knew D'Artgnan's thoughts all the way in England the words around his arm started to tingle furiously and he wrapped his hand around them and squeezed hoping to stop the sensation. "Shut up," he hissed, "just please. Shut up." 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fast forward a year.

A ivory chess piece slammed into the wall soon followed by half of the set as the Cardinal stormed around his office in a rage. All his planning, and time and resources has been totaled and left him with nothing. How could everything fall apart so easily? The answer came clear as crystal to him along with a mouthful of hatred. Athos, Porthos, Aramis and the little brat d'Artagnan. The men had been huge thorns in his side for years and he looked forward to when the day came when he could remove them forever. He had hoped that they would be wise and come work for him to make up for their transgressions but to no avail. A pity really. Richelieu might have cursed them but he had to respect their loyalty to France and their resourcefulness. It seems they was ever better than Rochefort when it comes to surviving and getting things done for the greater good. The memory of his former right-hand man and soul mate caused a small pang in the corner of his heart. Over a year has passed since the failed take over surrounding the Queen's diamonds and he had yet to find a replacement as good as Rochefort. 

Richelieu never had any interest or time for soul mates where there was a higher place for him to achieve. Even finding him when Rochefort applied for the position as the Captain did not give him reason to pause or even consider but that did not mean he was completely heartless. When Rochefort showed he was smarter and more driven than the others Richelieu showed him a little favor and allowed him to advance up the ranks to the position he had in till a few days ago maintained. He spared him but a little attention because Richelieu did not want to provide any false hope and he thought he did perfectly until that night twelve years ago when Rochefort confronted him in his office. When he tried to embrace him Richelieu punched him once but his words made up for any physical violence he could have inflicted upon the other man.

He told Rochefort that he had no use for him other than him being the Captain of his guard, right-hand man and what ever services he could provide. He told him that he was being weak and if France was to grow into a shinning beacon of power and stability than it had no place for him. Richelieu warned Rochefort that if ever had a lapse in judgement like this again then he would see him stationed so far awaythat he would not be able to find Paris on the map. Richelieu than turned around and left Rochefort kneeling on the floor looking worst than a kicked dog. Another discussion was never needed and he became one of his best agents and Richelieu could not have been more satisfied. Now everything he worked for was in ruins, Milady missing, the musketeers backs in the king's good graces and Rochefort death caused the words around his ankle to feel cold and numb. In the end he had grown slightly fond of his captain and now he was dead. Loyal and skilled were not easy to find and his greatest prize was no more. Deceased. Passed on. Beyond reach or sight. Brilliant and talented Rochefort was gone forever and if anyone saw that the Cardinal's eyes were slightly wetter than one would expect than they were wise to not mention it.

* * *

d'Artagnan listened to his friends talk downstairs for over a hour and eventually depart before creeping down the stairs to try and make sure the room was clear before heading towards the back door. He loved his friends but sometimes they were to warm and welcoming that sometimes d'Artagnan had to bite his lips to keep quiet about his soulmate. In the beginning it was simply out of fear and self preservation but now it was because he did not want to shatter the peace and fellowship that he had here. These men had helped him complete his full Musketeer training he had to under go. They had been sent on missions, bled together, fought together, and stood on watches so dull their eyes burned, together. They have lived together and gotten to know each other on a deeper level. Athos had even been mentoring him on things he felt D'Artagnan needed to know to survive in this city. He was sure his friends had noticed his growing habit of isolation but were willing to wait him out. These thoughts plagued him more as his hand was just reaching for the door handle when a voice called out from behind him. Jerking around and almost tripping over his own boots in the process he saw Aramis looking slightly concerned from the front of the house with a book in his hand. "d'Artagnan, what is the matter? Why are you sneaking around like a thief in the night?"

d'Artagnan wanted to tell Aramis that everything was fine but he knew that the other man might not believe it. It appeared that Aramis was the wisest of the group and he might provide d'Artagnan with some much needed advice but he knew that he had to be careful with the way he asked questions. With a small nod to the dinner table Aramis got the message and seated himself at the dinner table and crossed his hands over his book. d'Artagnan wringed his hands and paced back and forth trying to think about how to ask his questions. Aramis simply waited for him to speak reminding him of the priest at church waiting to hear his confession and grant absolution.

"Have you found your soul mate?" The question burst forth and it was too late for him to call any of it back. Aramis merely raised eyebrow before shifting in his seat and seemed to consider his answer.

"I doubt that is what is troubling you but I will indulge. No, I have not found her despite my many years of looking and waiting."  A small part of d'Artagnan felt for his friend because he knew what it felt like to wait to find the person that will complete you.

"If you found her and she was from another country...what would you do?"

Aramis gave him a small smile at his question and crossed his legs under the table. "Simple. I would first embrace her and tell her how much I looked forward to meeting her. And if she did live in another country I would try to find a way for us to be together in either one."

d'Artagnan nodded along with his friend's words but it did not answer his questions so he had to answer them more carefully. "What if she was from a hostile country? One that France is barely at peace with? "

Aramis eyes never lost their intensity as he stared d'Artagnan down where he stood and he fought the urge to fidget. "Than I would question where her heart followed. If with me than we would go where we can live quietly but if it rests with her country than I would hope our respective homes allowed us to remain peaceful."

d'Artagnan fought down the chill that raced down his back and swallowed the lump in his throat. "If she was high ranking in her country and disliked in France? And the odds of your respective countries remaining peaceful was slim to none?"

Silence rang through the room as Aramis seem to truly ponder the question and d'Artagnan began to wonder if he said to much.  It must have been hours before Aramis took a breathe and raised a hand to rub his forehead before looking back at him. "Then I pray that we never cross blades ourselves and that God has mercy on us both."

* * *

 

"I take it you have a plan." Mi'lady's voice cut through the air as Buckingham looked over the  map of the king's palace in France from where he sat at his desk in the tower. A quick glance revealed Mi'lady was dressed as if she had just come from one of her little adventures in England's court. 

"I plan to take everything that is mine and than extra for the offences."

"And so you bring your whole army?"

"My dear, this is not the whole force I have at my command."

"So you plan to march in Paris, confront the king and take what you please. That will not end well and you know it. It is to brash and direct. Let me help you be more subtle and you will still get what you want."

Buckingham turned from the map to face Milday after she completed her speech and was not fooled by her innocent face. He knew better not to trust her but he knew she made a point and had her worth. If his mate was truly involved with Athos, Aramis and Porthos and focused on the defense of France than pointing a gun at everyone in the palace would not give him the happy reunion he craved. Buckingham hated to admit it but he would need Milady's help to take what was his.

 

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

Aramis did not look away from him as if he was reading D'Artagnan's very soul and seeing the secrets kept hidden left him fighting the urge to flee. Running away without another world would only leave him suspicious and he had a feeling the last one who he should leaving suspicious would be Aramis. It would be better maybe if D'Artagnan stuck around and tried to play off his nervousness but he did not think that would go over well. _'As Porthos quoted: Discretion is the better part of valour.'_

"Thank you for your words. I will not bother you much longer. I think I would go visit Constance and see how she is doing after our recent adventure." D'Artagnan went to stand up and grab his cloak on the way out the door but Aramis stopped him before he could even open the door.

"Something is heavily troubling you. I take it from our conversation you have found your soul mate along England's shores." His voice was quiet but confident in the knowledge that he knew what was troubling his young friend.

D'Artagnan cursed under his breathe with the type of words that would leave his mother scandalized and reaching for her mouth-washing-soup and his father howling with laughter. He was foolish to go to Aramis of all people. Why didn't he talk to Porthos or Constance? A priest? Buttercup?

Sensing that he has hit the hammer on the nail and has distressed the younger man Aramis stood up and walked around the table to him. "This is nothing to be ashamed of. We can not control who we are paired with but only what we do when we find them. Is that why you fled when we discussed what to do when Buckingham retaliated? You have found your mate among his personal guard and is worried about crossing paths with him."

 _'Aramis thinks its a member of the guard. He does not know its Buckingham himself.'_ A wave of relief rushed over him so strong that D'Artagnan had to lean against the door as his knees went weak. Aramis did not look neither angry or unforgiving but sad and a touch of pity. He was not the type of man who was quick to anger or blame but he knew had a temper deep down. D'Artagnan did not want to find out if it would rise if he knew his mate was higher than a personal guard.

"There is nothing wrong in having a soulmate across the sea, my friend. What would be wrong is the terrible deeds that could be done. Milady was Athos's soul mate and he put his whole heart and dreams into her and for a time it seem that everything would work for the better. In the end she betrayed Athos and France because her love of money and power was stronger than her love for her country and mate. That is the worst thing you can do, D'Artagnan. I believe that it would better for one to leave with one's mate altogether than break the heart and trust of your mate for anything other than their own protection."

D'Artagnan turned from the door and walked back to the table to reach for the wine that he saw sitting on the table. Pouring himself a goblet full he drained it quickly and placed it back on the table before turning to his friend. "Do you thing that Buckingham will go to war? That there is no chance for peace?"

Aramis signed and turned to pour his own cup of wine as he made his way back to his seat. "Peace will not come without cost lad. Buckingham is a prideful and intelligent man. A powerful man. He will not risk losing face in front of the world by letting what we have done go unchallenged. He is gathering his forces and if we want to avoid bloodshed than we need to show good reason as to why he should not war with us. I do not think we can give him a good reason."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I need a beta!


	5. Chapter 5

D’Artagnan slowly made his way through the streets of Paris headed towards the palace. Aramis’s words rang in his ears about Buckingham and how the Englishman would be sure to retaliate against France for what the musketeers have done. The only thing that might work in keeping Buckingham from restarting the war is either convincing him of Milady’s treachery which made their actions necessary or fore D’Artagnan to use himself as a bargaining chip for peace. While the small-town part of him doubted that Buckingham would be even slightly interested in him there was a deeper part that said differently. That part of his brain remembered how Buckingham had stared him down with such intensity as if he was reading D’Artagnan soul like how one reads a story in a book. Not one second did D’Artagnan feel small or poor or unwanted. He felt needed, beautiful, pure and whole. Time meant nothing to him because he had found his mate and he was here and he wouldn’t be alone anymore. He did not know what Buckingham would have said because Athos chose that moment to arrive with the Airship and D’Artagnan turned away from his mate to return to France. When he turned back to look at the other man D’Artagnan did not see betrayal or anger but…want and fire and the words on his arms were _burning_.

Than Buckingham had turned to look at Athos and the memory of the anger and hatred on his face and the promise of vengeance in his voice made his body shiver with fear and strangely _want_. Thinking back to that moment did not make it hard for D’Artagnan to believe that reaction was not so much from the damage and theft of his property but because he was leaving with Athos. D’Artagnan did not deny that he had limited knowledge on Buckingham but he did not doubt the man was a little possessive of his things which now might stretch to D’Artagnan himself. Could this mean that when Buckingham arrived he would not only be coming for vengeance against France but to take him away to England? Could he use himself to possibly prevent another war between England and France?

So lost in his thoughts D'Artagnan did not notice when a cart was close to plowing him down until an hand grabbed his upper arm and yanked him out the way. "Will you watch where you are going, boy? Must you run headlong into a sword before you start paying attention?" Athos voice boomed behind him as D'Artagnan steadied himself on his feet and turned to face the other man. Athos, like the first time he met him, was wearing his dark jacket and smelled like he spent all morning the tavern and was as irritable as ever. "Thank you, Athos." Knowing how the older man can get when his drinking is interrupted D'Artagnan decided to play nice and not comment on how Athos could stand to pay more attention than something besides the bottom of a cup. "I will be sure to pay more attention."

Athos paused to give him a once over and before giving a quiet grunt. "I see you have finally picked up some manners. It seems that miracles do happen."

D'Artagnan felt his face flush hot as his temper flared at Athos's words and his mouth opened without his consent. "I see you have not put down the wine bottle so maybe miracle are just not common." Immediately after he said that he internally groaned. The last thing he needed today was to get into another duel but luck appears to have abandoned him lately.

Instead of getting angry as expected Athos simply scoffed at him and picked up the cup of wine that D'Artagnan had failed to notice was sitting an arms length away and seemed to drain half of it in one go before sitting it back down. "Where are you off to that you have you so distracted that you are almost killed by a rogue buggy? Off to see the Lady Constance?" 

Originally he was doubting his plan to see her but at the mention of his fair lady at the Palace d'Artagnan was convinced it was the right idea. Over the past year she had become a close friend who sometimes lectured him of the proper ways in court. The few kisses they shared was long behind them and the flirting was just for a laugh but he would say she meant much to him. If anyone understood the political games of soul mates and foreign countries it would be someone in the queen's own court. "Yes... Yes, I am going to see her. Bye, Athos!" Giving his friend a quick pat on the shoulder d'Artagnan an around him and headed straight for the palace.

Athos turned around as the boy took off the street looking like all the world as though the answers to all his problems was in front of him and all he had to do was catch it. "Strange boy." With a shake of his head Athos went back to his drink.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone asked me if there will be smut. I am not creative enough to write smut. If someone wants to write it and sent it to me I would really appreciate it.


	6. Chapter 6

It took only a few minutes to get past the guards at the palace gate before D’Artagnan was allowed entry to see his friend. He had a hunch to visit the gardens first where he was awarded when he saw Constance walking alone in the garden in one of her more ‘simple’ dresses.

“Constance!” D’Artagnan called as he rushed over to woman surprising her with the urgency in his voice.

 “D’Artagnan? What happened? What is wrong?” She asked concerned seeing the Gascon stopping before her gasping for breath.

 “Nothing. Everything! Constance, I need your help.” D’Artagnan exclaimed as he began to pace in front of her.

 “Of course. I will do everything I can but you must tell me what is wrong.” Constance reached out to grab her friend’s arm to stop his pacing and it was after a minute of silence before she spoke again.

 “Why are-”

 “I found my soulmate.” He blurted out.

 “D’Artagnan that is great! What is wrong about that?” She asked confused.

 “Because he is an Englishman.”

 "An Englishman!?" Constance shouted and D'Artagnan hushed her before continuing.

 "A noble Englishman."

 "A noble? Oh my god." Constance groaned as a hand went to rub her forehead. "Why didn't you tell me a year ago?"

 "I had to come to terms with it. Please, Constance. If the Duke decided to go to war I would be facing my soulmate across the battlefield and if we don't than the fact of the matter is that he is English." D’Artagnan knew that he should come clean about exactly WHO his soulmate was but he couldn’t. To say his name out loud will be admitting that it was real and his life was changing. To face the fact that the dreams he once clung to where now in the gutter because fate put them there. If Buckingham was a Frenchman or Italian than things would be so much easier but an Englishman? The hell?

D’Artagnan was broke out of his thoughts when a hand landed on his shoulder. "This might not be so bad. It is one thing to meet your soulmate but another to be with them. Maybe he might not want to reunite? You could live your life with someone else.”

That idea had never popped in his head: even if war could be avoided who is to say that Buckingham would want anything to do with him? Maybe the idea of rejection did not appear in his head sooner because to be rejected by ones soulmate was so rare? After all why would you reject someone who is supposed to be your better half? To fight the bond that stretches across time and distance to a piece of you? Only the nobility that is mated against those in another country would reject each other but occasionally those like the King and Queen Anne would make it work. Maybe he was over reacting? A man of Buckingham’s position probably wishes to pretend that the bond does not even exist. D’Artagnan groaned out loud as the words on his arms slightly tingled.

“Maybe. After all why would he want me? A poor, common, foolish boy chasing legends hoping to be a Musketeer and can-” Before he could say another word a hand slapped him upside the head breaking off his rant.

“Ouch! Hey!”

“I will not stand here and listen to you downgrade yourself to nothing over a man. You are not some common boy and there is no shame in trying to be a Musketeer. There is also no great shame in being born poor but you don’t have to die poor. What you are, Charles D’Artagnan, is a smart, strong, loyal, and brave man that some people would love to have.” Constance ended sadly and D’Artagnan’s heart panged with the memory of how he wished the woman before him was other half only to discover she wasn’t. Taking his friend’s hand in his D’Artagnan lifted it up to his lips to place a gentle kiss.

“My lady.” He spoke gently allowing his feelings to be heard in his words and Constance smiled in understanding and moved on.

“If your mate wants you is one thing but another if you don’t feel the same. Do you? Want him?” The question struck D’Artagnan dumb as he had never thought of it. Did he want his soulmate now knowing it was Buckingham? He knew that the Duke of Buckingham was an enemy of France, a bit arrogant, a weird dresser and devilish handsome while not in that order. However he knew little of George Villiers besides his name and that he was an Englishman. How could he make decisions based on that?

“I’m not sure, Constance. I don’t know him enough to make that decision right now. If he was just common or something I would not even be worrying like this but the man is nobility!” As if he was reading D’Artagnan’s thoughts his arm become warm like Buckingham was pushing at the bond to make his presence known. Growling in annoyance D’Artagnan raised a hand to rub his soul mark trying to push the feelings away.

“What is it? Do you need to sit down?” Constance asked concerned.  

 "No, I need your help to navigate this mess I'm in. If anyone knows how these things go it would be you."

"No, it would be the Queen. Follow me." Leaving him little choice as Constance took his arm in a death grip and dragged him off to see the queen.

 

* * *

From behind the rose wall the Cardinal resumed his walk as his mind worked to process this new information. The newest member of the Musketeers is mated to an Englishman of noble standing? The effect this would have if the news were to spread! The scandal sounded delicious even to his ears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN1: Thank all of you for being patient! I know where I want to go but I have no idea on how to get there. I'm close to catching my run-away-muse so expect more chapters soon. Thanks for all the support. 
> 
> AN2: D'Artagnan might seemed OP but I'm trying to express how this completely throws him and how he does not know how to navigate this political mine field. 
> 
> AN3: In the books Buckingham is obsessed with Queen Anne but since this is AU he will be using his power and wealth to try and win D'Artagnan’s love.


	7. Chapter 7

Finally it was happening. After what has been a long and annoying year he was setting sail for France. Buckingham had used the time to gather the needed time and money to mount a full-scale invasion on France. His allies were able to be rallied so they didn't try to intervene or pull some crap while his back was turned. And as free as he acted in England, he still needed King James' approval to launch such a conflict with France as they didn't have an army on stand-by all year round. With a quick visit to his family home Buckingham had set sail to collect what was his.

Buckingham had his soldier’s park at the French border so that he could calm down and think about his plan as burning down France would not likely endear him to his soulmate. Mi' Lady could not or would not provide any more information about what the Musketeers were doing with his airship so he decided to put that on the back burners. The ship was not a huge deal because he had over five dozen but he did not like the idea that France had a model they could copy to build their own.

The hole in his palace was already half fixed thanks to his wealth yet he had every intention of making France pay for the arrogance two fold. The most important thing was tracking down and collecting his sweet Gascon who was sure to remain with the Three Musketeers. The thought of Athos being anywhere near his other half made Buckingham’s blood boil and his finger’s itch for his favorite pistol. He was just as eager to wrap his hands around Athos’s throat for even looking at his mate as he was to embrace the Gascon and take him home where he would spend his life in him.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Mi'Lady’s voice cut through the air.

“While I take the penny you would take my purse.” Buckingham replied. The woman chuckled as she stepped closer to press her bosom against his arm. Where once Buckingham would have felt lust for the red-head he now only felt annoyance and a touch of disgust. It took no effort to shrug her off and he turned to enter his cabin but a hand on his arm stopped him.

“You seem quite stiff. Why don’t you and I relieve ourselves of a little stress before we finishing planning what to do about France?” She asked as her fingers danced up his chest to undo the buttons his shoulders. It was with little thought that Buckingham grabbed his writ and shoved her back from him with a growl.

“Keep your hands to yourself, woman. I need all your skills except the ones between the sheets so go have fun with someone else.” Buckingham warned but before he could make his escape My Lady laughed.

“I knew there was more to this than a stolen ship and broken walls. What is all this really about, Villiers? The Musketeers?” The red-head paused in her questioning as she tilted her head to the side like a cat. “Or is it about…the Gascon? Did the great Duke of Buckingham find his soulmate in the little French boy?”

Buckingham immediately cursed as My Lady hit the head on the nail as the red-head began to grin like a cat.

“I can’t say that I’m not surprised about this turn of events but I can still help you get what you want. Do you want the little Gascon or do you want him dead?” She asked still watching his every move. The thought of someone killing D’Artagnan made him wrap his hand around his pistol with an urge to yank it.

“I want him.” Buckingham hissed. “I want him with me.”

“That is absolutely possible.” My Lady purred in a way that made the hairs on Buckingham’s neck stand up.

________________________________________________________________________________

“Constance, wait!” D’artagnan pleaded as his friend dragged him through the palace at a pace that left him struggling to stay on his feet. “You are going to rip my arm off!”

“Hurry up! Don’t you see that time is of the essence? If your mate wants you than he could be on his way to France right now and we need to have some type of a plan in place!” Constance called back annoyed but she did slow down so that D’Artagnan could get his proper footing. It took them no time to make it to the doors of the Queen’s quarters where Constance told him to wait outside before entering. It was all he could do to keep from pacing as he wanted for his friend to return while the guards watched him with curious eyes. After a short wait the doors opened but not to show Constance or the Queen but to allow the Queen’s Ladies Maids to exit in a wave of perfume, giggles and large skirts.

“My Ladies.” D’Artagnan greeted with a bow as they passed him making their giggles grow even louder. Once the ladies were gone D’Artagnan resumed his pacing in the hallway under the Guardsmen’s gaze while trying not to let his dark thoughts overcome him. As if knowing where D’Artagnan’s thoughts were going the words started to warm and tingle around making his body stiffen.

“Please…” He begged even though he did not know what he wanted. 


	8. Chapter 8

Before D’Artagnan could get lost in his dark thoughts the room behind him opened to reveal Constance standing there looking relieved. 

“Don’t just stand there! Come in, quickly.” She hissed making the Gascon jump to action slipping past her into the Queen’s public quarters. He was barely pass the door when he stopped to stare at the obvious wealth and luxury that filled all the space of the room. The vase by the mirror would feed his family for at least six months! The pillows on the sofas was more expensive than all the beds and sheets in his house. 

“D’Artagnan?” The Queen’s voice called out drawing attention away from the desk that would buy everyone in his home village a horse to the woman who was sitting at a round table. Queen Anne beckoned D’Artagnan over and he rushed to comply embarrassed he was caught gawking like a simple beggar. Once he and Constance were seated at the table the Queen turned her gaze on him as if she was trying to look into his soul and find his secrets. 

“When Constance told me that one Musketeers had found their mate along England’s noble shores I did not think it would be you. It was wise for you to come to me fore this is a delicate road that I am familiar with walking. This is the first and one of the most important questions that I or anyone can ask you: Who is he?” She asked gently. D’Artagnan did not want to say his name because that would mean that this was not some weird dream but reality and that he could no longer go back to wishing and dreaming for his mate. Something must have shown on his face because Constance took his hand and squeezed it in comfort while the Queen gave him a gentle smile. “Right now you might be thinking that by not speaking his name it makes it less real. It will not. You might be thinking that there is no way that something like this could happen to you. It has. You might be worrying that he would reject you because of your social class. If he does than he is not worthy of you. I will try to help you through this storm that is likely approaching but I must know everything. Who is he?” The Queen stated with words that felt as strong as those in the good book. 

“Buckingham.” D’Artagnan mumbled under his breath. Constance’s hold on his hand tightened as she gasped while the queen leaned forward. 

“Pardon?” 

“The Duke. George Villiers. Buckingham. He is my soulmate.” The Gascon forced himself to repeat louder as he raised his eyes to look at his queen. Anne blinked owlishly before leaning back into her chair with a heavy sign. For a moment she did not say a word before she turned to Constance who appeared to be coming out of her shock. 

“Constance, be a dear and have a servant fetch the strongest tea there is. It appears that we are going to need it.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Constance replied as she quickly moved to the door to give the order to the servant who had been waiting outside with the guards. While his friend was gone the queen stared at the table in deep thought before turning back to him.

“You discovered this when you were in England recollecting my diamonds?” she asked.

“Yes, Your Majesty.” He answered dutifully as Constance returned to sit next to him.

“He does know who you are?”

“He knows that I was with the Musketeers but probably not my name.” D’Artagnan said after he paused to think. 

“We should assume he knows by now since names are nothing to come by in the world of politics and spies. How did he react when the words were exchanged?” 

“At first he did not seem to recognize them but when I looked back he was staring at me like…. like he was searching for something and had found it.” The Gascon explained it as best he could. 

“He did not recognize them at first? Is it possible that you are mistaken?” 

“No! Queen Anne, he is my soulmate. I felt the marks warm my skin when he spoke.” D’Artagnan blurted out. Constance retook his hand at the table while the Queen smiled gently at him in apology. 

“I am not calling you a liar but I need to be sure. Buckingham is a powerful man and this puts us in a particular situation. I need you to think back and truly remember how he responded when you left on the airship to answer this last question: Did he give you the impression that he would follow you?

"I’m not sure," D’Artagnan went to quickly respond, then stopped as the utter lack of truth in those words were realized. Memories from when he was in England flooded his mind - of the piercing stare and the hopeful eyes, of feeling time stop for both of them, the taste of victory and completion in the air, of Buckingham racing to the window to find him - and how he stared him down as if his will was enough to make D’Artagnan stay – and turning to Athos with the coldest look he ever saw on a human face, his face red with inhuman anger, his hand bawled into fist and a scream of rage. There was no grand declaration with words but the man’s actions spoke clear enough for the Gascon to admit the truth. "Yes, he did.”

The queen nodded like she suspected it all along before there was a knock on the door. It was a servant delivering the strong tea the Queen had requested. Once it was served and the servant left the attention went back to him.

“What do you want, D’Artagnan?” Anne asked him seriously. Nervous about what the Queen would want to hear he gave the best answer he thought she would want.

“I do not want to betray my country.”

“I am glad to hear it but I was asking the man, not the musketeer.” The queen replied with an amused expression on her face. D’Artagnan took a sip from his tea before he gave his answer. 

“I want to be with my soulmate and have a family. I want to be become the greatest Musketeer that has ever served France. I want to have it all, Your Majesty.” He answered honestly.

“Oh, D’Artagnan.” Constance signed making him jump. He had forgotten that his friend had even been there since he was so focused on the Queen. “You know that would be difficult with the way things are between England and France.”

“Difficult,” Anne interrupted “But not impossible and this could be used for good. If Buckingham does want, you than maybe he could be persuaded to not seek reparations for the destruction done to his palace.” 

“Your Majesty, are you saying we should use this for our political advantage?” Constance asked in shock. 

“People would use this pairing to their advantage and we must do so as well. I know it seems unfair but that is the way of things among nobles but you will not be defenseless. D’Artagnan, I have already walked this path and I will not leave you alone on it especially with the ways things are between England and France.”

“Thank you, My Queen.” D’Artagnan signed gratefully that he was not the only who thought him being used as political leverage was a good idea. Constance patted his hand with a smile as if saying I-Knew-She-Would-Have-Help. 

“There is one thing that must be done right away however.” Anne stated as she sipped some tea.

“What is that?” Constance asked. 

“Athos, Porthos and Aramis must be told at once. Better from you that from the grapevine.” 

Feeling suddenly worried at the thought of his friend’s reactions D’Artagnan grabbed his tea cup and drained it in one gulp while wishing he had something stronger.


	9. Chapter 9

 

The streets of Paris were half-empty as D’Artagnan made his way back the house that he shared with his three friends with slow steps and a heavy heart. He knew that the Queen’s words were true but that did not make the upcoming task any easier. He could not predict Porthos’s reaction, Aramis would probably give him that disappointed look that made a man feel two feet tall and Athos would probably shoot him before the words completely left his mouth. The man had claimed that he did not hate Buckingham but expecting him to take the news of D’Artagnan being the man’s soulmate well would be foolish. Sooner than he would like the Gascon found himself in front of the door where he could hear Porthos laughing at something one of the other men had said. D’Artagnan was not surprised to find his palm sweaty when he reached out to grasp the door handle to enter the place that had not truly began to feel like home.

“There you are, lad! I had begun to think you had gotten killed with temper of yours.” Porthos called out as the Gascon stepped over the threshold.

“Why? You would have missed me, old man?” D’Artagnan shot back with his usual snark making the larger man laugh loudly.  

“Not one bit!” he replied as he downed his mug of wine.

“Where have you been all day? Spent it with Constance, I presume?” Aramis asked as Athos turned to look at them from where he was refilling his mug. It would have been so easy to say yes before running up the stairs but D’Artagnan had never been a coward before and refused to be one now.

“Yes, I was with her…and the queen.” D’Artagnan admitted quietly as he reached across the table for the fourth mug and the wine pitcher.

“The queen? What did you and the queen have to talk about?” Athos questioned.

“Talking to her was Constance’s idea after I went to her looking for advice about navigating the political field of having a noble soulmate.” D’Artagnan admitted as he drained his mug.

“You found your soulmate? Good on you, lad.” Porthos thundered while slapping the Gascon in the back knocking him into the table.

“Yes, good on you.” Aramis chipped in as he snapped his bible shut. It only took one look at his friend to see that Aramis remembered their conversation from this morning and already knew what was coming. The Gascon quickly looked at the leader of their group to see that he was watching them all with an almost wary look.  

“I can understand going to Constance for advice but why the Queen? Surely, your friend is wise enough to give you sound advice in this matter.” Athos remarked as he leaned forward in his chair. D’Artagnan picked up the pitcher of wine and refilled everyone’s mugs before taking a sip of his ignoring the looks the men were giving each other.

“We went to the queen because my soulmate is an English nobleman that I found when we were retrieving the queen’s diamonds. Her Majesty know more about dealing with a mate across the border that comes with a lot of political strings than anyone.”

“You’re kidding.” Porthos grunted all previous humor gone as he turned to the former priest. “Tell me he is kidding.”  

“No, he is not. I suspected something like this since morning when we had talked despite my hope it was just an innocent question.” Aramis answered as he leaned on the table with that sharp gleam in his eyes that cowed lesser men.

 “It wasn’t innocent.” The Gascon admitted. “I was looking for answers to my problem. The Queen thinks that we should use me for political leverage to prevent another war when the man comes charge across the border.”

“Another war? Why would a random noble bring war to France to the point where you must be political currency?” Aramis asked.

“Because it is not just some random noble but one we all clashed with before.” D’Artagnan replied as looked around the room waiting to see who would figure it out first. The next thing that the Gascon knew he was being dragged out his seat to face a very angry Athos.

“D’Artagnan, tell me in the name of the saint’s bended knees that you are not referring to _Buckingham._ Tell me it is anyone but Buckingham!” he growled.

“I cannot lie to you.” D’Artagnan said quietly. With a growl of anger Athos shook D’Artagnan roughly ignoring Aramis protest.

“Of all the people it just had to be Buckingham, huh? You should have told us this as soon as we reached France’s shores but you hid this from us. Could not wait to spring this surprise on us, could you? You should have come to us!” The older man shouted.

“I did not plan this, Athos! None of this! And I was hesitant to tell you because I knew you would react just like this!” The Gascon shouted back.

“Let us all take a moment to breathe.” Aramis advised as he appeared from the side prying Athos’s fingers from D’Artagnan’s arms. Once freed the Gascon moved to the side where he was out of Athos’s reach closer to Porthos who started to chuckle. His laughter soon filled the room as the other men turned to look at him surprised.

“Oh, things are never boring in France for long with you, lad.” Porthos stated as he lifted his goblet towards the D’Artagnan in a toast. “So, how long can we expect to have some peace before Buckingham comes charging across the border?”

“There is no way to tell but the Queen promised that she will help me do what is best for me and France. At this point that is all I can ask for.” D’Artagnan admitted.

“Well, at least let’s not waste this last night of peace before the storm.” Aramis advised as he backed away from Athos who collapsed back in his chair with a terrible glower.  No sooner had he said those words that Planchet came bursting through the door sweaty, red faced and items falling out of his hands.

“Sirs, you must come see this. There is one of the air ships flying near the edge of the city that you can see from here! I swear it is the biggest one I ever seen!” Platchet exclaimed breathlessly. The four men shared a look before they charged through the door almost knocking Platchet over in the process. Once they got to the street they saw that it was filled with people all staring at the huge airship that could be seen in the distance flying Buckingham’s signal.

 “Well, D’Arganan. I hope you and Queen came up with a good plan.” Athos stated as a sliver of ice crawled up the Gascon’s spine.

 


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait.

D’Artagnan tried to walk as naturally as possible but from the tight grip that Aramis had on his arm the Gascon figured he failed miserably. He had figured that Buckingham would make his move but he did not think that the man would move so swiftly. The streets of Paris were in an uproar at the unexpected arrival of the airship so there was no doubt that the King and Queen were aware of the situation already. Queen Anne had only gone into the basic outline of the plan but now D’Artagnan wished he demanded to know all of it. If he knew what to completely expect that he would not be rushing discreetly to the main hall with his friends on his heels. Before they turned the corner the four men could clearly hear the King’s loud voice.

“Who does he think he is that he can just show up unannounced and park his ship at the edge of town? Oh, that man! If he wants war than he shall have it!” King Louise exclaimed. The queen’s voice could be faintly heard followed by the Cardinal. D’Artagnan wanted to just burst into the room but the looks from the guards at the room told him that it would not be a good idea. 

“Please, we need to see the King at once concerning The Duke.” Athos requested before the Gascon could open his mouth. The two guards looked at each other before one entered the room where the King was still shouting. A moment of silence followed before the guard appeared beckoning the men inside. Suddenly feeling nervous the Gascon could not immediately move his feet until Porthos gave his shoulder a gentle pat and nudged him into the room. 

Inside the King was pacing back and forth across the room looking seriously agitated while the Cardinal looked as if he had found an interesting chapter in the otherwise boring book. It was only the Queen who looked slightly calm at this new event and she nodded to D’Artagnan when he entered. 

“My Musketeers!” Louise exclaimed as the men knelt. “I take it you have heard what the villain has done? He has parked himself at the edge of the city without announcement and has brought an army with him! Where does he get the nerve? We must prepare for battle at once.” 

“Dear husband, we just signed a treaty for peace that is important for the wellbeing of the people of France. Let us not rush so quickly to war.” Queen Anne advised as she walked closer to the king.

“If you want peace than we must prepare for war, my queen.” The Cardinal butted in. “Buckingham has come with an army and if he desires to attack than we cannot be caught unprepared. We must prepare for whatever Buckingham has planned.” 

“Exactly! I will not let Buckingham’s fake offer of peace fool me! He will find us prepared to give back as good as he gives.” the King exclaimed. 

“Excuse me, Your Majesty, may we have permission to speak?” Athos asked quickly. King Louise immediately turned back to them as if he had forgotten they was there so quickly. 

“Yes, what it is?”

“Does Your Majesty not find it interesting that Buckingham did not attack last night when he arrived and us unprepared? The damage would have been enormous but now he was waited long enough that he should expect us to make preparations. Maybe war is not what he is here for.” Aramis stated. 

“Buckingham brings an army to our door and you claim it as diplomacy?” The Cardinal asked outraged. 

“More like a show of force that he hopes to sway things his way.”

“So he comes with a hundred airships and I’m supposed to be cowed? He will learn better than to mess with me.” Louise vowed. 

“Dear husband, I think that Buckingham might try to send delegates since he has brought such a show of force. We should listen to what they have to say in order to figure out where Buckingham’s mind is and to figure out how to play the cards in our hand.” Queen Anne advised as she turned her head to look down at D’Artagnan. The king turned to look down at the kneeling men but it was the Cardinal whose eyes stared directly down at the Gascon with an expression that neither he or Athos liked from the feeling of his friend’s body stiffening beside him. 

“If would be foolish of Buckingham to forget about my musketeers. Fine, I will entertain these delegates but I want you four to sneak and around and start to prepare to deal with these airships. Buckingham will regret crossing MY borders.” The King announced. 

“My King, if I may?” The Queen interrupted before anyone else could speak. The King turned back to Anne and nodded to her with an almost dreamy look on his face. 

“Yes, dear queen?” 

“Since Buckingham would mostly likely be stubborn when speaking with you or the Cardinal I recommend that I speak to the delegates.” The Queen explained. 

“You speak to Buckingham’s men? Your Majesty must be joking.” The Cardinal exclaimed as the King mimicked a gaping fish. 

“But, Anne! You are the queen. And delegation is not really woman’s work! How would France be seen?” The King shouted. 

“His last delegate was a woman and we women speak much easier with each other than you would if the Cardinal or another delegate was to speak. I know you both must prepare for what Buckingham could be planning and if me speaking with whoever he sends makes it easier, than please let me help.” The queen pleaded gently as she stepped closer to the king and looked up at him from under her eye lashes. Everyone who was paying attention could see that the king was helpless under the queen’s gaze. 

“Your Grace, would that be wise considering the recent rumors…. About your association with Buckingham? We cannot risk these rumors to resurface.” The Cardinal asked. The question caused the queen’s face to briefly harden and the four musketeers to stiffen at the mention of the rumors that had caused their visit to England lest than twenty-four hours ago. 

“Which is why I would ask the King to spare his youngest musketeer to be one of my guards during these tense negations. Surely such a brave and loyal young man would keep me safe and my honor protected.” The queen answered quickly as everyone turned back to the king. After a few minutes of intense thinking King Louise nodded in agreement before marching over to the Gascon.

“D’Artagnan, I hereby charge you to be in attendance as a guard to my wife’s party when she engages in discussions with the English delegates. No harm is to come to her, do you understand?” The king demanded.

“Yes, your majesty.” D’Artagnan answered as he placed a hand over his heart. 

“Excellent. Anne, if you want to give these delegates a try than you can speak with them. There will be no shame if you decide that these talks are too much for you.” The King spoke gently to the queen who curtsied deeply.

“You honor me deeply, your majesty.” She replied sweetly. The only one looking less than pleased was the Cardinal who kept looking between Anne and the D’artagnan with suspicion. The Gascon lowered his gaze out of the irrational fear that looking the Cardinal in the eye would allow the man to read his thoughts. Athos had just started to speak when the guards from outside hurried into the room. 

“Your Majesties, the Duke of Buckingham’s delegation has arrived.” He announced. 

“Well, show them in. I will hear what Buckingham has to say.” Louise ordered the guards who bowed and left.  
Everyone turned to the opening doors to see the delegate that Buckingham had sent with his no doubt list of demands. There were five guards dressed in the uniform of Buckingham’s soldiers and one woman. She was dressed in a rich ember dress that seemed complemented the deep red of her hair that was pinned up is soft curls. There was not a piece out of place and as she stopped a few feet away standing as regal as any queen that ever ruled no one said a word. 

“Good Morning, your majesties.” My Lady greeted with a deep curtsy. “I am here to discuss France’s terms of surrender.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I need a co-writer.


	11. Chapter 11

My Lady’s announcement was meet with only silence for a few seconds before the King’s voice echoed across the room in something similar to a squeak. 

“Surrender? SURRENDER? How dare that preposterous man demand that I, The King of France, surrender? Cardinal! Get my general! We must-” The King immediately stopped his rant when Anne gently cleared her throat from where she stood next to Louise. 

“Brave and strong husband, I believe that I was going to talk to the delegates concerning their invasion.”

“Your Majesty, maybe this should be left to the King and I since Buckingham intentions are quite clear. He does not come here with peaceful intentions. This would be an undue burden on your gentle nature and -” The Cardinal said to Anne as one would to a child. 

“The King gave me his word, didn’t you my husband?” Anne interrupted in a tone that made most of the men in the room swallow in nervousness.

“I did? Yes, of course I did.” The King added when the Queen gave him a sharp look. 

“While you are talking with the delegates, My Queen, may I insist that Buckingham removes his airships from the city. He has made his point about his intentions but if he truly wants to negotiate than he has to make some concessions. As a show of faith at least.” The Cardinal interrupted the moment between the Queen and King. 

“A show of faith?!” The King blurted out. The Musketeers and My Lady watched the exchange between the Royal couple and the Cardinal with rapt attention as one would a duel to the death. “A condition! He must remove all his ships and if I suspect he is trying some military maneuver or he shoots one cannon ball from the air or the sea that I will take it as an act of war and he can choke on his-his negotiations! I will show him that his air ships will not save him from MY might!” 

“An acceptable condition I am sure the Duke will agree with, your Majesty.” My Lady said with a curtsy. 

“Well, he must. This amount of disrespect is bordering on insulting to his grace.” Whatever the Cardinal was going to say was interrupted when the Anne cleared her throat loudly.  
After giving the Cardinal a dark look the Queen strode towards the delegates with as much confidence as if she was approaching her Lady’s Maids. A nudge from Aramis shook D’Artagnan out of his trance and he quickly moved forwards until he was but a few steps behind the queen. 

“Your majesty.” My Lady greeted the approaching queen with a smaller curtsy. 

“My Lady, come. We shall discuss these matters in my antechamber.” The Queen stated as she proceeded to walk pass the My Lady and the soldiers gathered at the door with D’Artagnan at her heels. The embassy followed after her but before the doors closed the Gascon managed to turn around in time to see his friends faces. What he saw was not comforting. 

What also was not comforting was hearing the small talk between the Queen and My Lady as he knew their words was more hidden dangers and dark poison than small talk. It was a relief to finally get to the Queen’s receiving quarters as he could feel the English guards glaring daggers into his back causing his grip to tighten on his sword hilt. The doors opened with a flourish where the Queen passed through as if she was entering a ball. D’Artagnan walked around the room to where he stopped behind the Queen’s chair while watching My Lady elegantly come to a stop before the queen with her guard coming to a stop behind her. There was only a moment of silence interrupted only by the rustling of heavy dresses before the Queen spoke. 

“I expect that Buckingham has come here with an impossible list of demands to accompany his army of ships. I will hear them before any agreements is made.” 

“Lord Buckingham’s demands are simple. First, the Musketeers did a lot of damage to the palace when they invaded and stole an airship. France will make reparations for the cost of the repairs of the palace and the injury to the men. Second, the Musketeers must also be held accountable for their actions as trespassing and stealing for the Duke is a high crime. Third, the airship must either be returned and replaced. Fourth, a public apology from the King and the Musketeers for their actions. Five, a guarantee that this will not happen again in the form of a Frenchman staying on English shores.” My Lady listed off as one would a grocery list as D’Artagnan’s jaw dropped further and further.

“A hostage?” The Queen demanded outraged.

“A guest.” My lady corrected gently. “No one from the royal family but one whose life has value to England’s…not so friendly associates. Buckingham has thought over this matter and has decided…” My Lady’s eyes traveled from the Queen Anne’s face to D’Artagnan making ice crawl down his back. “On the Gascon.”  
\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- ------

Athos watched the door closed behind D’Artagnan and the Queen with a twisted feeling in his stomach and it wasn’t just because My Lady walked through the door alive and apparently working for Buckingham. A quick glance at his fellow musketeers revealed he wasn’t the only one left unease as the recent events. 

“Your Majesty,” The Cardinal’s voice broke the silence that echoed after the Queen left. “May I suggest that we make plans for when the negotiations with Buckingham fail?”

“Fail? You do not think my Anne is capable of making peace with Buckingham?” The King questioned loudly drawing Athos from his thoughts.

“Her Majesty would be quite capable of peace IF it was what Buckingham was truly after. There is no doubt in my mind he will make impossible demands and when we do not bow to his will than he will strike all the while proclaiming us as non-agreeable and war hungry.” The Cardinal explained. 

The king puffed up at the older man’s words resembling an angry cat in expensive lace before he turned on his heel and started pacing the room. 

“That man! Damn his insolence! He would challenge ME in MY kingdom? I will not have it! I will not just wait for him to strike like some scared street rat. MUSKETEERS! You brought down one airship so I am counting on you to be prepared to do it again. Learn the layout of Buckingham’s ships and how to destroy them. Discover his plans, learn his secrets, find places where our men can be stationed to do the most damage and sabotage everything you can. When that man makes his move I want his fleet broken and at MY mercy. I want Buckingham at my mercy. When the people talk about the fall of Buckingham they will say it ended today. Do you understand?” The King demanded. 

“Yes, Your Majesty.” The three musketeers answered with a bow of their heads but none of them missed the glint in the Cardinal’s eye or the twist of his lips.


	12. Chapter 12

“Absolutely not.” The Queen’s voice cut through the air sharp and quick. “France has never and will never engage in the act of hostage keeping outside of times of war. Are we at war, Lady Clarick?” 

“Not yet, Your Majesty. I understand how France may feel about hostage keeping in times of peace but please understand that this is meant to ensure peace. What your Musketeers did was a public insult and violation of England's sovereignty, and we must ensure it is not repeated by meting out serious consequences.” Milady stated as if talking to a small child.

“We can ensure it will not be repeated without ripping a member of our loyal guard from their home and imprisoning them in foreign lands.” Queen Anne snapped.

“Imprisonment is the wrong way to view it," Milady countered, lips pouting. "The Gascon will be well fed, adequately clothed, given a room on the palace grounds, and allowed the freedom to wander the city. He would be quite the privileged guest, not a prisoner.” Milady continued speaking while the terrible cold numbness in D’Artagnan’s body was slowly melting, like drips of hot candle wax, into anger. That she talked about upending his life and making it seem as though HE should be grateful for the consideration was.... it was...

“Your pretty words are not fooling anyone. A prison is a prison no matter how appealing and well spaced the bars.” He snapped. D’Artagnan could see now the game Buckingham was playing (as it regarded him at least) and could applaud him for it. On one hand he would receive a hostage that would keep the Musketeers in check for fear he would be harmed and, on the other, Buckingham would be getting his soulmate without anyone the wiser of who he really was. His words caused Milady’s eyes to shoot to him and in them he did not see any of the gentleness her words carried.

Milady tapped the snow white lace of her fan against her red lips thoughtfully. “I was not aware you had leave to speak in these negotiations.” Her words were innocent enough, almost curious, but her firm tone clearly meant to remind D’Artagnan that he was there to guard, not offer his opinions. The Gascon puffed up, lips thinning and nostrils flaring.

“D’Artagnan?" Queen Anne cut in before D’Artagnan could insult the other woman. "I give you leave to speak, considering this is your life that we are talking, however I would remind you to have a care to mindful of whose presence you're in."

“Yes, Your Majesty,” he replied with a differential nod to the queen before returning his cold gaze to Milady.

“Very well but England has not forgotten your actions in this unfortunate...incident.” Lady Clarick stated lowly.

“And France has not forgotten yours.” D’Artagnan responded with the same amount of intensity in his voice. 

“Taking one of the King’s musketeers and keeping them prisoner is absolutely out of question!” The queen declared, the finality ringing in her tone enough to bring the discussions back to the topic at hand.

“I am afraid you must reconsider or these negotiations will end here. Buckingham has made it clear there will be no peace if the Gascon does not return with him. Please, understand that this is the only way for things to proceed.”

“Please understand that giving a member of our loyal Musketeers over to the rule of a foreign power is anathema to us, who hold him most dear for his estimable service. It is out of the question. I will discuss Buckingham's other demands but this last one is off the table.” The Queen announced in a voice that brokered no argument. Milady’s catlike eyes turned to look at him, leaving an uneasy feeling in his stomach and icy chill down his spine.

“My dear Gascon, don’t” Lady Clarick started to speak only to be interrupted by the said angry Musketeer standing behind the queen.

“My name is not 'Gascon'. It is D’Artagnan, and I would appreciate it if you use it!” he snarled. Milady simply blinked at him, giving nothing away, while the Queen turned her head slightly and gave D’Artagnan a look that he knew meant for him to calm down. Immediately shame washed over him causing him to look down to the ground at his lost of self-control in front of the benevolent queen who was kind enough to give him leave to speak in formal negotiations that would affect all of France. 

“D’Artagnan, you are a loyal member of the King’s most elite private guard, are you not?Will you truly let your personal happiness be the thing that stands in the way of France at last achieving peace with England, especially after this….regrettable affair? Are you not as loyal to France as you claim?” Milady inquired with a confused voice that fooled no one.

“It is not my personal happiness that stands in the way of peace but the foolish demands that are continuing despite the fact that my Queen has ruled.” Even D’Artagnan could hear the thread of hesitation wrapped around the words 'personal happiness'.

“Indeed she has. Lord Buckingham will be severely disappointed that these negotiations have taken such a sad turn.” Milady did not look happy but a moment later her face was completely blank reminding D’Artagnan that the woman before him has been playing this game a long time. 

“Hopefully, his mood will not darken overmuch when he hears how the rest of the negotiations have proceeded. D’Artagnan, how was the shape of the palace when you and our three other Musketeers made your escape?” The Queen asked tilting her head inquiringly to the young man at her side. 

“There was a very large hole in what I believe to be Buckingham’s formal office. You could fit a wagon through it. A few cannonballs were embedded in the walls and a few areas were scorched from fire. The floors took some damage in the process.” D’Artagnan admitted quietly. The queen breathed deeply before turning back to Milady.

“Were there any casualties resulting from this incident?”

“No one died but there were some severely wounded men left behind in the Musketeer’s wake. A few of those poor men have lost limbs which has dramatically altered their family's fortunes. They're prospects and income having been most obviously effected, to say nothing of the inability of that soldier to ever serve the crown again." Milady tutted, shaking her head and displaying an artfully sorrowful countenance. 

“How much is Lord Buckingham asking for to cover the cost of the repairs and compensation to these injured men?” The Queen asked pulling some sheets of paper out of her desk and writing on it as one of the English guards pulled papers from a bag he had strapped to his side and began writing on it as well. 

The guard bowed deeply to the Queen before he began. “The cost of the repairs to the his Majesty's Tower, the allotment of financial aid to the aggrieved men, and the compensation due to England to repair the crown's goodwill has been levied by My Lord the Duke of Buckingham at 250,000 livres.”

D’Artagnan felt as if the air had been knocked out of him at the guard's bland pronouncement. 250,000 livres? For 600 livres he and his parents could eat well for a year and a half! For all his time being surrounded by the grandeur of the palace, with its sweeping marble floors, paintings by the greatest masters, and elaborate gilt fixtures, he could not even conceive of such a sum! Hearing the princely charge being demanded of his sovereign on behalf of damage he'd been so pivotal in causing made D’Artagnan's cheeks flush hotly with blood while the rush of it from his head left him feeling faint.

A quick glance at the Queen revealed she was unsurprising by the amount. For what is that to a great lady who even now was sparkling with expensive diamonds in her hair? The finest lace gathered and sewn into her gown? It was hard to choke back the shame he felt for his envy at her ease as he watched the Queen write Milady’s demands on the paper.

“Next?”

“The Musketeers must he made to account for their actions. After all, England had reached out for peace. England cannot be seen to be lenient to those who would do such as they have done, certainly not without good reason.”

D’Artagnan was swift in jumping to the defense of his friends, and himself. “We had a valid reason, Milady. The Cardinal sent us on a mission to intercept the double dealing spy, Rochefort. Villain that he was, he had insured that Lord Buckingham would not have believed us if we approached him. He would have brought war to both England and France if we had not intervened." Guileless blue eyes cut between her and the Queen. "Surely you got the feeling something was wrong in England before we crossed paths. Do you remember, Milady? We were by the ocean.”

“You passed Milady on the road coming from England? You did not pass Rochefort on the road? Interesting. I must hear of your travels at a later time. Perhaps over tea, Lady Clarick? I am sure the Cardinal would be interested in England’s doings.” Queen Anne added. Anyone with a working eyes could see that Milady understood the meaning behind their words and took it to heart.

“I see. I will speak to Lord Buckingham about Captain Rochefort’s flimsy loyalty and villainous actions against our respective counties. I am sure he would drop his second demand.” 

“See that he does.” Queen Anne ordered with the confidence of a woman used to being obeyed.

Milady lowered her eyes in distaste at being so commanded, shaking back delicate ringlets from her eyes and jutting her chin ever so slightly. “The airship that was stolen must be returned to Lord Buckingham, or France must replace it. I am sure the King would be equally as adamant about the return or replacement of his property should the injured parties had been reversed.” The Queen turned to look at D’Artagnan with a raised eyebrow and the Gascon rushed to explain.

“It is true that we... borrowed an airship in order to return to France. Our time was short and we needed to avoid the bounty hunters that Rochefort had set after us. It was his intention that we not return at all.”

“Is the act not called stealing when a thing is borrowed without the intention of returning it? Whatever your reasons, English property was commandeered by French Musketeers and now the ship must be returned or replaced. Where is it now?" D’Artagnan watched the way Milady offhandedly snapped open her fan in synchronicity with her question, and it occurred to him that he would not be surprised to learn she already knew the answer.

“It had been destroyed by Rochefort on our return, Milady.” 

“Replaced than. Shall we add the cost of replacement to the cost of reparations, Your Majesty?”

“France will pay the half the cost of replacement and no more. The ship was taken on a mission to help both of our countries. Lord Buckingham would understand it is only reasonable for both countries to bear the burden.” The Queen stated. 

“A ship that was, what did your musketeer say? Oh yes, borrowed?

“He gained peace from the ship being borrowed.” Queen Anne reminded. “France will swallow half of the expenses.”

“Your counter offer will be duly considered. Lord Buckingham also requests an apology for the offences don-” Milady was immediately cut off by the Queen’s incensed "No.". 

“No.” Queen Anne snapped. 

“I beg your pardon, Your Majesty?” Milady demanded as her eyes widened in surprise and her fan hung loosely in her hand. 

The Queen had not so much as risen from her seat yet to D’Artagnan she seemed to suddenly fill the room. Her sweet, high voice made him unaccountably nervous though she wasn't talking to him. “I am sure that you heard me quite clearly, Lady Clarick. Buckingham has marvelously overstepped himself in this matter. What our Musketeers did prevented an all out war between our two countries, and as King James will not be made to account nor will King Louis. Kings answer to God alone who anointed them and not to men like Buckingham. Will we make reparations? Perhaps. But to publicly apologize for saving lives and keeping the peace of whole nations? Never.” Milady’s head rose slightly almost as if defiance before she seemed to remember her place and returned to the gentle, vacant mask she wore earlier. 

“I understand, Your Majesty. Are there any requests you would have me take back to Lord Buckingham?”

“Yes, there are. First, Buckingham will remove his forces from our realm and he is to NEVER again bring his fleet to our city gates or we will see it as a declaration of war. Second, when it is time to revise other terms he will be here personally. I do not much care for speaking through others when the welfare of my people is at stake. Is that understood?”

“I understand completely, Your Majesty. May I take my leave?” Lady Clarick asked as she stared down the Queen who sat completely at ease in her delicate pink satin fauteuil. D’Artagnan did not fail to notice the tight grip Milady kept on her fan.

“You may. Enjoy the rest of the day, Lady de Winter.” Queen Anne said in a clear dismissal of the other woman. Milady sank into an elegant, precise curtsey before turning on her ivory heel as if she were the queen and sweeping by the ushers already holding open the doors. Once they closed behind her and her guards there was only silence before the Queen let out a deep breath and leaned back in her chair.

“Things are moving faster than I hoped. It seems we must quicken our movements as well. I will have the tailors work faster on the clothes I have had prepared so that you can wear them when Buckingham arrives.” 

D’Artagnan quickly stepped up to her writing desk until he was even with her, wringing his hands. “Your Majesty, I did not have time to practice the art of allurement your book offered. I know how to fight and to ride and to defend the King, I... I don't know how to seduce!”

The Queen watched his flustered cheeks redden at the thought and considered for a moment how young her Musketeer truly was. “For the sake of peace, D’Artagnan, when Buckingham arrives you had best try,” the queen replied in an chillingly hushed voice.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My thanks to my amazing co-writer ConstantineMK. I would be lost without her.

When at long last the King flounced out in a huff, muttering about Buckingham and colors and "those same appalling manners", the Cardinal was finally free to return to his private quarters where he could focus on the latest... developments. He had thought all of his carefully laid plans to be ruined like an overturned game of chess, scattering his pieces and thwarting his strategy. Buckingham's arrival however might easily resurrect them and put him back on the board. It would just take a little adjustment of approach on his part and he was nothing if not adaptable.

He had already planted the seed in Louis's capricious, coifed head that the English Duke has non-peaceful intentions. Unfortunately, until he has further evidence from which to draw fodder for rumor and speculation, he is confined to his square to await his turn. Patience is, after all, a virtue, and who is more virtuous than a Cardinal?

Nevertheless there were other ends upon which he could focus his efforts, starting with the Gascon and his mystery English lord. It was truly suspicious that no sooner had the daring young hero returned to French shores than a furious Buckingham was in their sky with hell in his sails. It could all be a simple matter of timing and the measure of Buckingham's fury at the ingress of the Musketeers, but the hasty pursuit seemed too swift to be mere English indignation. He rubbed absently at this temple as he passed a pair of his personal guards standing sentinel outside of his rooms. Never would he have made it to the position he now holds if he had chalked such things up to coincidence.

The King’s littlest Musketeer and the great Duke of Buckingham, hmmm?

That was something too delicious to ignore and not twist to his advantage. When Milady had strutted into the palace on Buckingham's behalf he had immediately begun to design a way to eliminate her. As was typical with her ilk though the value of her services once again loosed the noose from around her neck. She would be an regrettable necessity if he planned to benefit from the unforeseen opportunity. Ill-fated love and international scandal often walked hand-in-hand but really, this was too ideal a situation!

He had just closed the doors to his outer rooms when the minor twinge in his temples swelled and became a crippling pain that gave little warning. It felt as though a spike had been driven through his skull. These pains which plagued him further with sour nausea, dizziness, and a debilitating sensitivity to light were becoming habitual annoyances that he was forced to manage. The throbbing pain continued to build and left him stumbling through to his office and the couch therein. He collapsed onto it with a groan that itself echoed agonizingly in his head. When the pain showed no signs of subsiding Richelieu reached out a hand blindly, waiting for something that did not come.

“Rochefort, my vial!” The Cardinal gasped through gritted teeth when his hand continued to remain empty. It was only when he cracked open his eyes with a wounded growl for his Captain that he remembered that the man was gone. Ended thanks to a Musketeer's blade.

The Cardinal heaved himself up from his chair with a heart that felt heavier than he would ever admit, not even to God. It took more minutes than he would have liked to stagger to his desk. It took even longer to find the tiny silver filigree vial at the bottom the secret compartment hidden beneath the wine bottle in his middle left hand drawer. Not even Buckingham's spies, clever as they were, had found it. 

His personal physician had only prescribed two dollops of the tincture to be mixed with warm mulled wine but he always took three to ensure his relief- even if it was only temporary. Today he took four with a hearty pull from the fine Bordeaux, quietly hoping that either the medicine or the wine would remove the vicious ache in his body. A smaller part of him hoped it would also drown the affliction in his soul.

A quick, pain-narrowed glance around the room confirmed that he was indeed alone in his chambers. All knew better than to disturb him when his private doors were closed. It had taken him destroying the lives of a few nameless servants and impudent lordlings before the message was made clear and all understood. He could risk no one seeing him so impaired. This weakness could too easily be manipulated to his determent; it could undermine his reputation and thus, his authority.

Rochefort had been the only one Richelieu had ever allowed to see him in this blighted state and even that had been an accident. It was years ago when the headaches had first begun, when he knew not the signs of their imminence, and he'd collapsed to his knees before his desk. Rochefort had wasted no time in attending him and had pulled him into his arms in an attempt to assess his hurt and sooth the severity. The pain had been so new and unexpected that Richelieu had forgotten himself completely so that he rested his head to his mate’s shoulder.

The suffering had been brief but the realization of the position he was in had been even quicker. Richelieu had lurched to his feet and ordered Rochefort from his quarters but the Captain would not hear of it. He had even tried to embrace him and in the end Richelieu snapped. 

To this very day he doesn't know what cause him to act out in violence. Was it his shame at his own weakness? The admiration he feared he might have started to feel? His great physical pain that manifest his helplessness in rage? Maybe it had been a little of all three. Whatever the catalyst, his fist flew for the first and only time at Rochefort. It was also the first and only time his mate would reach out to him. He offered the last shred of himself that wasn't calloused over by the hard life he had lived. 

Richelieu hadn't thought about that moment between them for years and he found that it was a hard memory to relive. Now, as he lay in his office over 12 years later, incapacitated by the same pain and with those fated words around his ankle, they felt as a cold iron manacle to him. It made him doubt, for just a moment, the course of his life.

Completely rejecting his mate was a hard choice but now the Cardinal wondered, for just a second, if it was the right one.  
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Buckingham had never been a patient man nor had he ever claimed to be. Such a wait worsened his temper and was a sore trial on his self-control. As such, he carefully ignored the work of the men around him as he paced from one side of the deck to the other waiting on Milady's return. They avoided his gaze and went about their preparations as their captains had tasked them. These men knew their Duke well and none wanted to be called to account for lack of diligence on this day.

It was gone two hours since he had ordered Milady to treat with the boy King in the palace far below him. She carried with her a list of his demands that he instructed must be met before peace could be negotiated between himself and France. Most of the stipulations would be predictable if not a bit galling for the King (the insults implicit in certain of his terms had, of course, been wholly intentional) and to be truthful they hardly mattered to him.

The money was to get their attention and the insistence on an apology was meant to offend as he had been offended by the Musketeer's. He knew they would find a way to evade this demand as they had his men and the Cardinal's assassins. Their resilience would amuse him if it wasn't so immediately inconvenient. All other demands aside, his airship was another matter. By God he refused to leave the one they'd purloined in French hands any longer than he must, lest they begin fashioning ships of their own.

The sun was beginning to lower in the west and the indolent golden glow of afternoon was beginning to smolder into pale pinks and burnt oranges. A breeze from the north broke around the ship and curled around the men on the deck. When Milady was spotted they would begin their descent to collect her. Then he would finally hear the first counter to his opening gambit. All of his demands were diplomatically sound but he would leave them all unfulfilled if it meant having his soulmate with him.

Sweet D’Artagnan was the one unconditional claim over which he would not compromise. He would call upon the very fires of hell and rain brimstone from the sky if anyone, be he King or aging, pathetic Musketeer, should try to keep him from his mate. He did not wait near on 20 years, since the night those words finally etched themselves into his flesh, for nothing. His mother, Lady Mary, hadn't sold so many of her precious family jewels so that he might travel abroad and learn the ways of a courtier, for nothing. She did not part with him at so tender an age, so that he might renew the Villiers name by clawing his way into King James's favor, for nothing.

George had learned his lessons well. He'd swallowed his pity for the King when the man tried to press the memory of his dead mate on him. As befit his training he used the sentimentality of the King to his advantage and had for all these years. He would not be left short now. No, he would return to England in triumph with his dear one by his side even if he had to steal D’Artagnan from the French to do it.

And wouldn't that turnabout be fair play? George smiled grimly with the darkening red of the sunset pouring scarlet shadows across his face. They had stolen from him so he would steal from them.

The fluttering roll of his stomach as his airship began its graceful, gradual descent was enough to shift Buckingham from his reveries. More crew were called to the top decks as grounding procedures commenced with shouted orders and instructions that were taken up from stem to stern. Milady, it appeared, had finished with the affairs of the day.

What Milady knew or had guessed about his sudden interest in his beautiful young D'artagnan was probably closer to the truth than he cared for. Any attention paid to his soulmate by that porcelain-skinned viper was too much for his comfort. However, in feigning secrecy and playing at concealing his intentions, Buckingham knew that she would believe herself to have the upper hand. For a woman who dealt in secrets, it was no great one to any person of the masculine sex, that Milady did not care to think of any man as her equal; not in intelligence, physical prowess, nor in the canny perception of human nature, a skill she of which she was so proud.

"Pride goeth before destruction, and an haughty spirit before a fall," he quoted, his words washed away in the wind. To that end he retreated below deck to the cabin which housed his opulently appointed receiving room and office. He would wait there for her to come to him.

As his ship rocked and groaned, creaking deep within its hollow bowels, he felt the shudder as the bottom of the hull scrap against the earth. After the rocking had settled he crossed to his desk where he seated himself in his usual elegant sprawl. He poured himself a generous glass of wine from which he took a large mouthful, what by a lesser man might have been considered a gulp. The glass was nearly drained by the time his ears detected the distinct click-clack of ivory heels against floorboards.

Milady sashayed into his office as if she owned the space, dipping the most impertinent yet polished curtsy he'd ever seen. He nodded in greeting, lips twisting in acknowledgement. 

"Were your negotiations successful?" He put his wine glass to the side and poured one for his agent. Milady approached his desk to take the offered glass with a dip of her pointed chin.

"Hmmm," she hummed as she took a deep sip, "successful in some ways and less in others." She stepped back to seat herself, fluffing her gown around her with her free hand. "I bring to you as well the counter demands from the French."

"They made demands? Has the King not looked to the sky?" The Duke snarled.

"King Louis has indeed look to the heavens. As has the arbiter on his behalf. Though, it seems however, that their gazes have looked past your ships and found the righteousness of God Himself." Milady seemed to be relishing her delivery, eyes sparkling with contrary delight in the weak rays of sunlight falling over them through the windows. "They are now demanding that you henceforth remove your airships from the city of Paris and its surrounding lands. They go on to warn you that should even one cannonball fly from sea or air, that they will take it as an act of war that not even your mightiest ship will save you from.

"Your withdrawal would be seen as an act of good faith, of course.” She smiled cheekily as she waited for his response, sipping daintily at her wine. Buckingham’s blank look coupled with a slow blink evinced exactly what he thought of the last part of the King’s statement.

"The little King is more a fool than he looks. What are these other demands he sent you back with?"

"That you must be on hand personally when it is time to revise any current treaties or agreements with the King's representative. The arbiter I spoke of earlier, the one who cut so deeply in banishing your ships from French skies... is none other than the Queen." 

The man's eyebrows shot up. "Queen Anne? Well, well. I was not expecting a King, even such a one as Louis, to allow his gentle wife alone to martial her not," he chuckled, "inconsiderable charms to diplomatically repel an invading force. I was expecting none other than our dear Cardinal."

"So did I," Milady mused, nibbling on her lower lip. "It seems that there is a power struggle coming to a head between the Queen and the Cardinal, but the Queen has countered him for the moment. The Cardinal may hold the King's hand and thus guide the reins of power, but she has the love of the King and so she holds him by the balls."

Buckingham laughed into his cup. “Tell me. What was Lady France’s response to my demands?”

"The Queen heard out your charge that reparations be made for the damage done to your palace and your men. To that end I believe you will be remunerated for the entirety of the sum. The Musketeers claim they had good and just cause for their actions which will spare them from punishment."

“What good reason did they claim?” Buckingham demanded.

“Only the best." He tamped down on his impatience as she push forward her décolletage toward him as she refilled her glass, taking her time. "The Cardinal sent them on a mission to intercept the double-dealing spy, Rochefort. They say they knew that due to his duplicitous intrigues, he had insured that your Grace would not have believed them if they had approached. That Rochefort would have brought war to both England and France if our daring heroes not intervened."

“Rochefort? The Cardinal’s captain is a double-dealing spy that also worked for me to bring France and England to war? Are they serious?”

"Completely." Milady toasted her glass to him. “So serious in fact that they believe you would see Rochefort for his villainous ways and drop your second demand.”

The Duke slouched back in his chair and raised his hand to rub at his eyes. “Next.”

"They say that the airship that they stole was destroyed by Rochefort on their return voyage to France. Queen Anne has agreed to pay half of the expenses since the ship was taken on a mission to help both of your countries.” Milady's instincts could not be faulted as she averted her eyes to the snow white lace of the fan that materialized in her hand. The explosion was immediate.

Buckingham burst from his seat. “What kind of fool do they think I am!" He bellowed as he slammed his fist against the desk, making the wine decanter and crystal glasses jump. "I will see the remains of my ship, whatever its state, before I believe such a convenient tale! I will brook no discuss on this point!" Following his outburst, even the footsteps on the decks above them had ceased.

“I am sure the Queen will find the request reasonable however there will be no apology from France for these recent events. How did the Queen say it?" Milady just couldn't help herself. "Oh, yes. That's right. ‘Will we make reparations? Perhaps. But to publicly apologize for saving lives and keeping the peace of whole nations? Never.'”

Buckingham waved away her cheek with a sharp gesture as he restlessly moved from behind his desk over to his sideboard. The sunset had gradually been giving ground to the inky gloom of early evening so he set about lighting the candles. Back to Milady he fought to cool his temper and could not help rolling his eyes at the Queen’s dramatic words. People said HE had a talent for theatrics.

“And my last request concerning the Gascon as an English hostage?” The Duke asked with artful flippancy, moving from one candle to the next.

“The Queen told me very stalwartly informed me that France has never and will never engage in the act of hostage keeping outside of times of war. The boy is held dear for his estimable service so it would be anathema of Them to give us such a noble Musketeer.”

Milady words was met with the sound of cracking glass as the Duke grabbed up his empty cup and hurled it at the wall. How dare they. How dare they. His life had been lived in the pursuit of readiness for this moment. He did not do all this for nothing. They would not keep his soulmate from him, St. George as his witness!

“I tried to appeal to the Gascon’s much lauded loyalty to France," she continued. "I entreated him to reflect if he was not allowing his own personal happiness to stand in the way of a peace between two nations. He was brazen in his adamancy that his loyalty was not in question and declared the matter surely closed as his Queen had already ruled on the matter."

Buckingham moved swiftly back to his seat, boots crunching over glass.

“You spoke to the Gascon? He was present during the negotiations?”

“He was. Apparently he is the Queen’s personal protection during this affair and she had given him leave to speak since we were talking of displacing his life. Unsurprisingly he was unhappy at the thought being the prisoner of a foreign power.” Milady began to fan herself idly as if she were growing bored with the entire discussion. Buckingham knew better. She was watching him closer than ever.

“The Gascon is the queen’s guard, eh? I will meet with the Queen and while I do I want you to do what you do best, my dear. Sneak down forbidden corridors and into forbidden beds. Gather any information or hearsay that comes to you. Anything I can use to my advantage in this.” He grabbed up the decanter and swallowed the remains of the alcohol in one long pull, not caring if her eyes were on him. He would be seeing his little French stallion sooner than he had expected. He would go to the Palace and speak to him personally.

Milady lowered her eyes again, thoughtfully this time, using her fan to hide her face. Before she had time to think Buckingham was before her, that same feral presence that had possessed him earlier had returned and was focused entirely on her. He leaned forward on his arms and pinned her to her chair, resting his cheek against hers almost affectionately.

"Don't fail me, Milady. You and I both know exactly what I want from this 'hostage'. Just as I think you know what I'll do to anyone who stands in my way." Milady remained still in her seat as the Duke rose and dropped something wet and sharp into her hand.

The broken stem of Buckingham's wine glass laid in her palm, covered in blood.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do not ask me how I ever made it without ConstantineMK because I truly do not know. Especially after she wrote so much of this chapter.
> 
> I will start talking back to you guys, I swear.

It was before dawn and the citizens of Paris were all still abed when a heavy pounding at the front door roused Planchet. He stumbled up from his makeshift nest of blankets with a disgruntled huff, rushing and nearly tumbling down the stairs in his hurry. It wasn't his most graceful moment but he needed to stop that infernal banging before it woke up the entire household! He threw open the front door, scrambling frantically to catch it before it slammed against the opposite wall, and shushing himself as he stumbled and slammed his forehead square into it! He waited with bated breath, tilting his head like a curious bird with his chest heaving, listening to hear if any of his master's had stirred... He counted to five and when no yelling echoed down the stairs Planchet laid his head forward against the door in thanksgiving.

"Who is the silly ninny calling at this time... Of all of the stupid, inconsiderate..." He grumbled as he righted himself. Upon further inspection the "silly ninny" was a messenger dressed in royal livery who appeared far too awake for the ridiculously early hour. The messenger started to officiously announce "It has been requested that the Musketeer D'art-" but Planchet flailed his hands in the man's face, shushing him quite insistently. He waited with his hand half over the messenger's mouth to hear if his master's had stirred... Slumping in relief for a second time, Planchet removed his hand and held up a finger in the universal gesture to wait.

He scurried quietly to D'artagnan's room to wake him. Grateful he was, too, that it was D'artagnan the messenger was after and not Aramis, or worse, Athos, or, heaven forbid Porthos! D'artagnan was affable enough, always paid his share, and he seemed to have a good head on his shoulders- and he didn't have a penchant for calling folk rude names or throwing things at poor household help like some people. 

After a groggy start, the young Musketeer speedily dressed (not in his uniform since he was not being called out on official business) and was out of the house, grabbing up an apple and some hard cheese on the way. He followed the messenger to the stables and together they rode through the early morning mist and dewy chill that had settled crisply over the city.

Now, as a Musketeer D'artagnan was regularly on duty at the palace following an orderly rotation of his brethren, so he was not unfamiliar with the routine and location of the stable to be used and the entrances he was permitted to utilize. This time, however, was different. Upon reaching the palace he was taken in through an unfamiliar side door and made to wait in a poorly lit corridor used by the lower servants until well after the sun had risen. He sat quietly on a rough oak bench and ate his small breakfast.At a quarter past eight in the morning, while the Queen was attended by the ladies of the court at her levée, D'artagnan was being escorted by a silent footman through the cavernous receiving rooms and galleries of the palace. These rooms he was more familiar with but they never failed to dazzle him. The abundance of windows and mirrors in every chamber filtered and reflected the morning sun's velvet-like warmth, draping it across polished marble floors, exotic wood panels, and catching in crystal drops that hung from delicate gilt decorations. Everything shone and sparkled, not a mote of dust or smudge of dirt to be seen.

The beauty and extravagance of the palace never settled in D'artagnan's heart so that it made him inured to the awe such splendor evoked. It was all too easy to recall a not so far away time; his gangly limbs, the smell of hay and black soil, the taste of dense, mealy bread, and the hard, scratchy feel of his cot back home in Gascony. To remember the cold, lean winters of his youth and then to open his eyes to the finery and privilege now around him, it was as night was to brilliant day. He could hardly believe his good fortune! Though he regularly sent money home and received letters full of pride and joy at his elevation in return, it made him think often of how much he missed his parents, his home, and Gascony itself. City life was so different from douceur de vivre and all he was used to.

After passing a portrait of the King’s late father, D'artagnan had a better grasp on where he was in the palace. He was being led into The Grand Cabinet, a beautiful room off of the Queen's Bedchamber. At the same time as he entered, he knew that elsewhere in the palace the Queen would be processing to Mass with the King. Their schedule was as predictable to the court as the diminishing of the stars was before the rising of the sun. As a Musketeer charged with the protection of the King he knew too well that their much remarked on predictability could be used by plotters who wished His Majesty ill, but he also knew that this predictability was but one of many traditions that rooted the nobility to the crown. Tradition and order, Athos had told him, would endure in France as long as there were Frenchman to uphold them. 

There was a delicate clearing of the throat. D'artagnan turned his eye on the grim-faced footman who had collected him. The footman stared down his nose at the Musketeer. 

"You mustn't touch anything," he instructed with sharp, precise diction. "You mustn't sit on any of the furniture or leave this room until you have been seen. Oh, and don't make any noise, none at all." There he was left again to wait until well into the early afternoon. D'artagnan paced, stomach growling, but he was careful that his boots wouldn't scrape the floor or clomp too loudly. That sourpuss of a footman might come back with a broom and attempt to sweep him out with the rubbish!

He was just beginning to suppose he'd been forgotten when the Queen finally swept in, attended only by Constance. Both women were dressed in rose-colored satin trimmed with cream white lace and dripping with pink and white pearls. D'artagnan discretely straightened his plain, homespun clothes (they were his only clothes, save his Musketeer uniforms). They might be simple but they were clean and in good repair. With most of his earnings going back home there was little to spend on himself.

The Queen cupped D'artagnan's cheek and used her leverage to joggle his head. "Shall we begin your lessons then?"  
\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
The meaty slap of a silk fan hitting flesh jarred D'artagnan from his woolgathering. That had been hours ago. He hissed and shook out his fingers.

"I apologize, Your Majesty," he gritted out, biting his tongue. Queen Anne did not appear the least bit apologetic. She snapped her fan open and closed lazily from where she sat by the fireplace. The sound of it made D'artagnan flinch.

Realizing that his pout wasn't going to win him any sympathy with the Queen, the Gascon turned his doe eyes on Constance who stood slightly behind the Queen. She flashed him an encouraging smile that had a tad too much wicked amusement in it for D'artagnan's taste. 

“You unfolded the napkin too far in your lap. You must first unfold it halfway and then tuck the left hand corner only one-fourths. Now try it again,” the Queen instructed. D'artagnan let out a very put-upon sigh but did as he was ordered, turning his full attention to the napkin on his lap which he did his best to fold correctly. He was ever mindful of the deceptive, flimsy-looking fan his evil mistress wielded like a whip, just waiting to strike.

Looking up from his latest effort, he waited for her critique only to be utterly confounded when the Queen gave him a cheery nod of approval. She even clapped for him (which frankly felt to D'artagnan to be just the slightest bit condescending).

"Now we move on to the repast! Soup and appetizers will be served first, then the roast meats and salad, followed by dessert, and we’ll finish with the fruit course. The soup should be eaten with the utensils on which side of the plate?

"The right side, Your Majesty."

"Should olives be taken with a spoon or a fork?"

"A spoon."

"And walnuts?"

"With bare hands."

"Correct! When is it acceptable for your knife to touch fish?"

"When... When it's..." D'artagnan frowned, nibbling on his lower lip. "When it's in a pie?" The Queen stared at him for a long moment.

A smile bloomed and she cheered, "Oh, well done, D'artagnan! Very good indeed! One thing to remember is that we never lift the covering from our own plates. The servants will do that for us as it's appropriate to the dish but just this once we must do it ourselves.”

She lifted the covering from her bowl as she continued to lecture. Constance and D’Artagnan followed suit. Once the Queen had paused in her recitation long enough to sip a delicate spoonful then they were free to do the same.

"D'artagnan, posture!" The Queen reprimanded, smacking her fan between his shoulder blades without spilling a drop of her soup. The Gascon jumped and rolled his shoulders back, pulling his left arm off the table. That fan was a menace!

"Apologies once again, my Queen. I am not used to so many rules," he smiled roguishly, winking across at Constance, "or so many courses!"

The Queen nodded and laid down her spoon. "I do not expect you to learn the entire breadth of French manners all in one day, D'artagnan. I was raised in this world and still it took me many years to master them. Unfortunately time is not a luxury we presently have. I am planning to host a fete soon with lots of food and dancing; enough to distract the King from this disagreeable temper that he's been in since Buckingham arrived. Publically it will be a celebration of the King's work for the "Ballet de la Merlaison" but privately this will be our opportunity to sway events in our favor. I'm afraid this means that I must insist you learn these basics of etiquette and allurement. Buckingham has frustratingly forced our hand and now our timeline is strict indeed. Asking him to return in a year would not likely end well for us," she smiled wanly "or France."

"Your Majesty, please forgive my impertinence and please do not mistake it for ingratitude, but... you almost make it seem as if using the wrong spoon or dropping my napkin on another guest's foot would be a catastrophe equal to the fall of Rome."

"A napkin, soiled with rich sauces and littered with crumbs, fall on another guests finest shoes? Shoes that can cost what a skilled laborer makes in a year?" Constance shook her head, hand fluttering over her heart. "D'artagnan, blood feuds have been sworn for less!" Hearing this the Gascon's eyebrows shot up in surprise before shooting down to his spoon. He stared at it with suspicion as if it were a poisoned dagger and not a utensil. He looked back up at the Queen. She nodded to confirm what her lady had said.

"This is only too true. The court is a beautiful place but it can be treacherous to the unwary. But fear not, D'artagnan! If you drop your napkin on my dress I swear I won't make war on you." Queen Anne giggled at seeing the peaky look on the young man's face. 

Constance clutched at her sides, laughed along with her mistress. D'artagnan smiled helplessly at their amusement and turned back to his soup. He managed to get through the rest of the course with only three more corrections and one bruising thwap from that damnable fan.

He was just taking one last bite of the duck when he noticed Constance glance at him from beneath her lashes with a look that was almost... he would have almost said amorous. D'artagnan immediately looked down at the plate in front of him to avoid her heated gaze. He chose to ignore what he'd seen because surely he'd been mistaken. He focused instead on the Queen's continued tutelage. More of the day flew by. A salad course came and went.

As the Queen schooled him on the importance of personal space as a general rule (although obviously this rule would not apply around a certain English Duke), his eye was drawn up to those of his friend sitting across from him. He almost choked on his mouthful of wine at the coquettish look she was throwing at him. A quick glance to his left showed that Queen Anne remained oblivious to what was going on around her.

He managed to avoid looking at Constance again until the mango-basil Vacherin was served to them by none other than the pucker-faced footman. D'artagnan smiled cheerily at him just for fun. As the servants departed D'artagnan examined the dish. He'd not heard of what was on his plate and he had no idea how to eat it but with a quick glance to his left he decided to mimic the Queen. So, like her, he started from the bottom and worked his way to the top.

When D'artagnan bit down into the creamy dessert there was no stopping the low, inappropriate moan that escaped his lips. It tasted amazing! This was the food of the gods! There was a gentle coughing across the table just before the hardest smack yet clunked down on his head. D’Artagnan immediately dropped the spoon as he rubbed the aching spot on his head furiously.

“Merd- Mercy!” he groaned, biting back the vicious swear. He rubbed at his aching head, feeling around under his hair for a lump. The Queen was a villain with that fan and D'artagnan would fight any man or woman who said otherwise! Here he was, trying and failing to ignore the sound of Constance, who was trying and failing to keep her giggles stifled behind her delicate hand. Not trying hard enough, D'artagnan humphed, his scowl deepening. His sulk lasted only as long as it took him to realize that the Look on the Queen's face was for him.

She gestured sharply for a servant to remove their plates, all the while fanning herself with deliberate, tense strokes. When the servant moved too slowly for her a few curt words sent them scurrying away. The table was silent with only the sound that of the fire crackling in the hearth behind them.

“D’Artagnan," the Queen said at last, her tone now more disappointed than angry. "I understand that you are unfamiliar with the richness of our desserts and that your palate is simple and not used to sugar and exotic fruits. That very reason is why we are training your stomach and as well as your manners. However..." she leaned forward ever so slightly and seemed suddenly to loom over him. "Such a scandalous noise in polite company is shameful and a breach of etiquette in even the most common tavern houses. Be aware of your manners at all times lest you disgrace your King at table, never mind yourself."

Constance was looking away into the fire, keeping her eyes discretely averted. D'artagnan swallowed and nodded, lowering his gaze. Then, realizing he hadn't answered aloud, he murmured quickly "I'm sorry, ma'am. I truly am. I'm grateful for the kindness Your Majesty has shown me. I will be more mindful of myself and how I express my... appreciation."

"Now, if it had been just yourself and Buckingham together at table I would have said you should have been louder still!" D'artagnan scrambled to catch his glass and nearly choked.

"P-Pardon, Your Majesty?"

"If it was a sound of," the Queen lifted a suggestive eyebrow " _appreciation_ , shared only between you and he, well, that would be between the two of you then would it not?"

Constance shared a cheeky look with the Queen. "I think our work may all be done for us after one dessert!" They laughed and poured out more wine, the spell of the Queen's displeasure suddenly banished.

"Constance!" D'artagnan gaped, looking bewilderedly between the two women, utterly lost and unsure of what rabbit hole he'd fallen down.

The Queen's lady threw him a saucy wink, holding his gaze in a way that made his cheeks heat in embarrassment.

"Oh, goodness!" The Queen laughed, beginning to slowly fan herself again. "It would do your poor cheeks some good if you accustomed yourself to such insinuations and looks before Buckingham arrives tonight or I fear your face may burst into flames! Do you think he will refrain from staring at you so? Or making shocking entendres that would quite put us to shame?"

"I'm afraid I may not be very good at receiving that sort of attention, Your Majesty." The Queen smiled around the lip of her glass, eyes twinkling as though D'artagnan had made a grand joke.

Constance shook her head fondly. "You seem to have an savant's understanding of flirtation if that dessert is anything to mark from. I remember our first meeting in the courtyard, do you recall it?" D'artagnan nodded, smiling at the memory. "You were all flash and wit, with your country charm and your pretty blue eyes. What happened to that boy who flirted as hard as he fought? Where is all that bold brass?"

"Taking a lady's advice," he teased. "The poor fool went back to his hovel to lick his wounds and learn some more eloquent line so that he would be able to stand a chance at court. Sadly he has not yet returned."

Without noticing he had begun to slouch in his chair when out of the corner of his eye he noted the twitch of the Queen's fan. He snapped his elbows in and sat as straight as if there were a stone wall at his back. The bejeweled fingers carefully holding the fan relaxed, but only just.

“Hopefully some more exercises with Constance will speed his journey.”

A quiet knock on the door drew their attention and quieted their conversation. Constance rose to answer it. There were brief words and then she was sweeping back the door to an unending line of servants carrying silver trays piled high with neat white boxes. They came in all manner of shapes and sizes and each one was tied with brightly colored silk ribbon. There must have been a dozen servants and three times that many boxes!

Constance orchestrated the deluge until they were all neatly organized into a perfect arrangement of stacks with a servant waiting patiently by each one. Hearing her instructions, D'artagnan was given to understand that in these boxes were clothes. Clothes for him.

D'artagnan made the sign of the cross on his chest.

"Excellent!" The Queen clapped giddily, coming to stand beside her Musketeer. "Your new clothes have arrived! We must make sure you are absolutely dashing for when Buckingham visits the palace today. The next stage of the game is afoot!"


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this came so late but life is forever busy!
> 
> Thanks to ConstantineMK for writing most of this chapter so that it emerged the glorious gem that it did!

He only needed a little air, that was all. Just a few minutes to clear his head and he'd be fine. 'Right as rain' as his mother used to say. Only, perhaps...

He tugged restlessly at the top button at his shirt collar, rolling his neck.

...perhaps he was a touch overheated; sort of flushed, really.

But he wasn't- he was fine. Just fine.

And yes, alright, he could admit that a casual observer may have cause to wonder why he was moving so quickly through the labyrinthine corridors of the palace, lurching left then right at seeming random, but he wouldn't call it running. That wouldn't be very dignified, now would it? No, he would call it a- well he was... he was striding at a brisk pace. Yes, that's what he was doing. Perfectly acceptable when one was seeking solitude and fresh air. He was striding at a brisk pace deliberately away from the Queen's suite because...

Somewhere behind him a door slammed and D'artagnan visibly flinched, head ducking down between his shoulders in a knee-jerk reaction.

...because he desired above all earthly things to be far, far away from that snapping fa- suffocating room (unconsciously he rubbed at the small lump on his head, hidden beneath his hair). He was a Musketeer and Musketeers didn't run from piles (mounds, hills, mountains) of-

"Pardon!"

D'artagnan pirouetted on the sole of his boot for a precarious instant-

"Shoo!"

-before he could swing himself clear-

"Out of the way!"

-just narrowly avoiding being trampled by a gaggle of palace servants who looked at him as if his merely being in their path were a mortal insult. They marched in a stiff-back, nose-up formation, looking for all the world like they were all liveried geese flying south for the winter. He watched them disappear around the corner in perfect formation with not a single synchronized step out of time.

He chuckled a tad hysterically, palm cradling his forehead.

The Cardinal's Guard should give weighty consideration to taking lessons from the serving staff, he mused. After all, he'd never seen those red-clad thugs parade so uniformly or with such purpose.

Thinking about the Cardinal's face should he pose the suggestion pushed further manic laughter past his lips. D'artagnan covered his mouth and ducked behind the nearest available door, slouching limply against the silk covered walls.

He felt punchy after being suffocated by silks, buried beneath velvets, and bound up by gold ribbons, silver trimming, and bejeweled belts. Buttons and ruffles and feathers in every color. Under the watchful eye of the Queen (and her cruel fan) the royal tailor had pinched, pinned, sewn, stitched, measured, tucked, traced, and draped him in every type of cloth, leather, and brocade known to God and Man. More shirts, coats, hats, shoes, and pantaloons than he thought one person could wear in a lifetime, let the (hopefully) short duration of the Dukes stay. All had been customized to his body's measurements and styled to suit his coloring and fairer... qualities.

Surrounded by rich textiles that cost for a yard what D'artagnan made in a year somehow made the venture he was about to embark on more... real? It was jarring to  
think, as he stood before a hideously expensive body-length mirror imported all the way from Italy, that these were in fact his clothes now. They'd been given over to him by the Queen of France in order to better outfit him to seduce the war mongering Englishman at their gates. The selfsame just happened to be his soul mate.  
D'artagnan let his head fall back with a dull thud against the blue fleur de lis patterned wallpaper. He winced, hissing. Drat and blast! He'd momentarily forgotten about how tender his head was.

Well, if it weren't for bad luck he'd have no luck at all!

His eyes, blue enough to rival the silk wallpaper, searched the ornately painted ceiling for answers. For validation. How had this become his life? How had his modest existence as a Musketeer become so much...

He sighed.

It almost felt like he was standing still at the center of a great storm; one step either way and he'd be swept up. Everything was happening too quickly and he couldn't get the measure of any of it. In the past when faced with hardship he'd always clung to the truth of himself and what he felt was right. He would listen to his father's voice, feel his mother's guiding hand... and his heart would do the rest.

Now though... now D'artagnan did not know himself or his heart least of all.

He could remember sitting amongst the other village children who were gathered to watch the traveling puppeteers weave grand romantic legends about that divine instant when a lost spirit met their soul's true mate for the first time. The puppeteers would move on the next day, traveling with a group of merchants up the coast, but their magical account of that moment stayed with the little round-faced D'artagnan for all the years after.

That being said, he now thought it was a load of absolute poppycock.

There had been no true love's kiss, no falling into each other's arms with promises of forever, and most certainly no hint of love conquering all. Instead there had been a violent explosion, threats of murder, and a dangerous battle in the clouds between two crippled airships. Not exactly the epic romance he'd been so wooed by as a child.

He sighed, heavily this time. A glimmer out of the corner of his eye had him turning.

He stared through the arched window out to the garden beyond. It was alight with the burning colors of sunset; fiery oranges, creamy yellows and bubbling splashes of magenta. Through the intensity of the sun's glare he could just make out an impressive marble fountain attended by a court of sculpted shrubbery and orange trees. 

Around the basin of the fountain were carved images of restless sea creatures and rolling waves, brought to life by the play of light and shadow.

At the very top of the fountain, twice the height of D'artagnan himself, presided a handsome gilt likeness of the great god Neptune. Athos had explained the imagery during one of their rambling walks back to the stables at the end a long guard shift. It had been early in the morning, before the palace was properly awake, and  
D'artagnan had been dead on his feet. Athos, always so keen to the needs of his men, had attentively filled the drowsy silence between them with recitations of classical poetry from the golden age of antiquity. He chose the most thrilling narratives that highlighted the deity's more awesome exploits. D'artagnan had been instantly captivated and managed to keep his eyes open until they'd returned to their home.

He smiled as he stared unseeing at the glittering fountain. With his gruff demeanor, scathing looks, and saber-sharp tongue it was sometimes easy to forget that beneath the bitter, jaded exterior, Athos was a titled member of the aristocracy. As Count de la Fère he'd been groomed for power and furnished with an excellent education. Despite an upbringing that might have caused him to be dismissive of the low-born Gascon's curiosity, Athos was never condescending or dismissive of D'artagnan's hunger to learn. As it happened, Athos was even now holding a Latin primer for him which they were due to review the next time they both had a quiet evening. In turn, the older man's love for classical Greek prose was a secret D'artagnan kept close to his heart.

Bolstered by thoughts of his mentor and better for his short time alone, the young Musketeer moved out from behind the door, ready to return to the Queen refreshed... only to barrel face-first into an immovable wall of hard muscle, oiled chest hair, and polished leather. That could only mean-

"Steady on, lad! One would think you have an entire legion of Englishman after you!" Porthos's booming chuckle echoed through the room like rolling thunder. "Or, perhaps, just one Englishman, eh?"

This was the second blasted time today he'd almost been knocked cup-over-kettle! If this was indicative of how the rest of his day was going to go, D'artagnan thought he might be better served by returning swiftly to the Queen's side so that he might deliberately drown himself in the leagues of lace.

"Here now, lad, don't be bashful! Carnal conquests-"

Drawing himself back from his thoughts and blushing fit to set his cheeks on fire, the embarrassed Gascon knocked his grinning friend's steadying hands away, glaring. "I don't want to hear about your 'carnal conquests, Porthos. I really, truly don't." Still, he continued to blush and Porthos continued to laugh.

He knew that if he denied or bulked at the teasing that Porthos would take it as a challenge and raise his ribbing to a new crude and wholly unsubtle level. Deciding that discretion was the better part of valor, D'artagnan moved his attention right along to his other two friends who stood just behind the great ox.

As he greeted them, something struck him. None of the three wore their uniforms and Aramis, though sleek as ever, had left off his cross. Curious.

Athos tipped his head toward the center of the room which D'artagnan couldn't help but notice as he followed along behind, was away from any windows, doors, or other areas where one might be easily overheard. The first thing one learned about duty at the palace was that every wall had ears.

Behind them Aramis shut the door they'd entered by and stood before it, obviously on his guard. Porthos mirrored him, taking for himself the other door at the opposite end of the room.

Even more curious.

D'artagnan frowned. "What are you doing here, Athos? I didn't think it was your rotation tonight. Are you on the King's business? Have there been new orders?"

"In a sense." Athos squared his shoulders and looked D'artagnan straight in the eye as he said, "The King has tasked us to perform preliminary reconnaissance to investigate and assess Buckingham's forces here in Paris. Our brothers have been dispatch to the border we share with the Netherlands and the airships he has berthed there. We are to prepare a series of strategic countermeasures should negotiations sour between the Duke and Her Majesty. In the shortest time possible we must discover the means to cut the head from the snake."

D'artagnan felt his heartbeat stumble. He understood, he did, the English were a threat to France, and by that standard Buckingham was the greatest threat of all. Should he be assassinated here, and especially beneath the sacrosanct banner of a truce, the immediate forces threatening his country would retreat for lack of a leader but calamity would surely follow with the fearsome brunt of English vengeance. A Duke's death could not go unchallenged and Buckingham's death in particular.  
He shook his head, trying to dislodge such evil thoughts. He would deliberate no more on such an outcome. Avoiding that dread circumstance was why he was colluding with the Queen in the first place. He could do this, and he would. For the Queen. For France. For his very soul.

He fisted his hands to stop their trembling. If Athos noticed his friend's distress he did not comment on it.

"Buckingham will have some men with him tonight when he visits Their Majesties. This will be the perfect opportunity to infiltrate his personal airship and survey both its strengths and weaknesses. We can also use this time to observe the Duke's behavior, and that of his closest advisors and attendants."

"That sounds... very practical."

"Indeed. Treville will be coordinating between our two groups. Meanwhile the Cardinal will be putting his spies to use for France, though if he will deign to share what intelligence he gathers, is an entire matter unto itself."

D'artagnan chuckled and the corner of Athos's mouth twitched upward before falling into a frown once more.

"That is not one of your shirts. Where did you get it?"

D'artagnan's eyes danced about the room like a pebble skipping across a pond, avoiding the older man's shrewd gaze. "The Queen summoned me early this morning-"

"Planchet said as much."

"-to discuss what would be expected of me as her personal guard during such delicate negotiations. We... discussed her security and I've had a few very productive meetings with her usual guardsmen. I've already sent a coded report to Treville detailing their modified rotations and the other changes to her detail. Then of course the Queen was gracious enough to spend further time instructing me on the rudimentary tenets of courtly behavior. I'm embarrassed to admit that I am as much a bumpkin as any country boy plucked from obscurity could be. Having lived with me I'm sure you're already aware that outside of a sword fight I'm as awkward as a fawn just getting his legs under him. I only hope that I don't embarrass Her Majesty too badly or make too poor a showing. In that, Constance had been a great hel-"  
Athos cut his hand through the air between them, silencing the young man's nervous babbling. He leaned in closer, grey eyes pinning the Gascon in place.

"D'artagnan. I will have your answer now. Where. Did. You. Get. The. Shirt."

He swallowed so hard he was sure Athos, now no more than a hand's length away, heard his throat click.

"The- the Queen has masterminded a plan of her own, and in it I am the linchpin." D'artagnan paused, biting his lower lip. He knew how this plan sounded and what  
Athos would think of it. His history with Milady was no secret, not after all they had been through together. Still, he hoped his friend would at least try to understand. 

"This shirt is merely a small part of what I believe to be an unnecessarily vast new wardrobe she has commissioned for me so that I might... draw in and tempt the Duke, and in this way sway him in their dealings, for the good of France."

The silence that fell between them felt as heavy as the boulder suddenly weighing down the bottom of D'artagnan's stomach. The room, already spacious beyond need, seemed by the moment to deepen as the silence between them swelled. When the agonizing quiet and the inscrutable look on his friend's face became too much, the  
Gascon cracked.

"Athos, I-"

"D'artagnan wh-"

Porthos's amused cough-snort cut them both off, startling them so they turned to look in eerie unison. Truly, Porthos mused, they were more alike than kin who had raised together all their lives.

"Porthos!" They both scolded. Their double act only tickled him further.

"You? Our innocent D'artagnan? Use your wiles to tempt the wicked Duke? Lad, this I must see!" He thumped his knee for emphasis.  
On the other end of the room, Aramis, who relished the missions that required a more personal touch eyed his young friend appraisingly from the curls of his lashes to the heels of his boots. The scrutiny did not go unnoticed, prompting an already perceptible twitch around Athos's eye to develop into a full spasm.

"Tell me, D'artagnan," Athos growled, his hands locked behind his back, "is the Queen dressing you to fit the part, hm? Like some harem slave girl from the exotic East? I can see it now! To curry the Duke's favor you'll be put forth as a state sanctioned concubine... a whore from the royal brothel! What better way to lay siege to a man than by dropping your pants, bending over and inviting him to take a ride?!" With each accusation Athos's voice had grown in volume, abruptly shattered the levity of Porthos's banter and violently startling Aramis from his thoughts.

D'artagnan stared dumbly at his mentor, at the man who meant as much to him as his own father. Watched his chest heave as he drew in air for another verbal assault.  
He'd known Athos would be opposed to this plan, that he might even be belligerent at first, but he hadn't been prepared for such... such personal attacks which bordered on cruelty. Well, D'artagnan was not going to be thrashed beneath the storm of Athos's self-righteousness! He would not stand for it!

"How dare you! You forget yourself! Your blatant insinuation that the mission handed down to me from our Queen, a mission that is no different to a thousand others you've each carried out in the past, somehow makes me a whore, is the basest sort of hypocrisy! You speak as if the Queen is my pimp! I am sickened you might think this of me, Athos, and if you let another dishonorable word about our monarch fall from your lips again then I will answer with blades!" D'artagnan hissed as he leaned forward until he and Athos did not have a space between them. "That is a promise."

"I," Athos hissed, "will say what I please and I will say it as LOUDLY as I please. I will shout it all and more when you tell me you are putting ribbons in your hair and bows on your ass to make Buckingham believe you are his sweet piece of France he can conquer in his bed anytime he pleases!" Athos pushed the younger man back a few steps. His words lowered to a malicious whisper. "But that's your intention, isn't it? To lure him to your bed so you can report back on how he likes to fu-"  
The meaty, dense slap of hand meeting cheek was so sudden that all four men seemed surprised by it. No one said a word for a long time. The sun was nearly set and the room was more shadows than light. Lines had been crossed today that would not be easily forgiven.

At last, D'artagnan spoke.

"I am not Milady, Athos."

When his mentor stilled, he elaborated quietly, "I have never given you reason to doubt the quality of my character nor my faithfulness to my duties. From the first I have stood beside you as one brother does for another. As I have done so, I have never failed you, no matter how impossible the odds. I had hoped," his voice broke against his will but he steeled himself to continue, "that given the repeated proof of the constancy of my principles, that you would have needed no corroboration to believe that I am not cut from the same cloth as she."

Athos brushed past him almost before he'd finished. Aramis stepped out of the way as his captain blew through the doors, slamming them behind him. In his wake D'artagnan found it difficult to breathe.

"Don't worry about him, lad." Porthos rumbled, as gently as his voice was capable of. "His better angels have been fighting with his demons for years... ever since that witch caught him in her spell. None of that unpleasantness was meant for you." D'artagnan nodded into Porthos's one-armed bear hug.

"The great lummox is right," Aramis affirmed, smirking at Porthos's squawk. "Athos will come around in his own time. If one virtue can be laid at that man's feet, it's that he has never deserted a brother."

"Libertine," Porthos muttered, brightening as he chucked D'artagnan beneath his chin. "For now though, you should spare a thought for own protection."

"I'll be fi-"Aramis lifted a finger warningly.

"Don't you finished that sentence! You will not dismiss our concern for your safety." D'artagnan's mouth closed with a clack of teeth.

"Good. Now, I think it only right that you know, considering what's just occurred, that Athos was the one who diverted us from our preparations to warn you. The nature of our assignment will divert us from being easily accessible and we will be unable to assist you if things should become dangerous."  
Porthos looked ready to make a pithy comment but Aramis swiftly continued.

"I would remind you that your enemies at the palace are many and the stakes are now ruinously high. I would also remind you that while the Queen highly favors you, she is still a Queen, and with the higher concerns of a dynast to consider. If it comes to it she will sacrifice her knight to save her King."

"Our brothers will watch your back," Porthos broke in, "but don't let your guard down! Oh, and make sure Buckingham keeps his hands to himself... your hands are another matter entirely."

Porthos leered until Aramis smacked him upside the head, dislodging his hat.

As they walked together back into the hallway, parting company at the end of the gallery, D'artagnan couldn't help but consider that silks and satins, being voiceless  
and non-judgmental, might make preferable companions when compared with cantankerous, hypocritical Counts.  
\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
"God is good," Aramis murmured, bringing out a simple Latin cross from beneath his shirt and the restriction of his leather jerkin, pressing a reverent kiss to the silver. 

There was work to be done and as a Musketeer he knew that it must be executed without delay, however some things could not be abided in silence or reconciled by time.

Some things, or rather some people, needed a swift kick in the a- 

"Once more unto the breach, old friend?" Porthos joked, nodding ahead of them.

Aramis sighed wryly.  
"As always" he rejoined, tucking his cross away with a quick Hail Mary and a second beseeching kiss, "we go where angels fear to tread!"

Fear to tread, indeed.

After their fight and his abrupt exit Athos had fled the palace on horseback as if the very hounds of hell were nipping at his heels. He and Porthos had followed posthaste, shouting at the stable boys to saddle their mounts without delay. As they galloped along the cobbles and wended their way through the narrow Parisian streets, Aramis had had the opportunity to muse that it was just their luck that their wayward, twice be-damned brother never seemed to move with such rapidity as when he was trying to outrun his past or escape his own mistakes. More was the pity.

By the time they'd reached Paix, Athos's poor horse had already been led behind the walled garden and off the street. They followed through the same iron gate, tying their horses before a trough of clear water. A boy of perhaps 16 had already taken charge of the weary, frothing steed that had come before them, washing away the clinging sweat.

"I knew you'd be along thortly," an older woman lisped between her remaining teeth, smacking the step under her feet with her gnarled cane. "Not that I care, mind, but I had a feelin'!"

She hobbled off back into the house without much more than a condescending eye roll. She left the back door standing open. It was as warm a welcome as they'd ever gotten from her but they understood all the same; Athos had always been a particular favorite of hers and he was distressed- she wanted them to fix this.  
Of the secret houses owned discreetly by the Musketeers, Paix was Aramis's personal favorite. Houses such as Paix were preserved for those who engaged in undercover or otherwise clandestine missions. They were maintained by former Musketeers or the families of those, in this case an old crone named Aggie who presented herself as a struggling elderly washer woman and seamstress who occasionally hosted temporary lodgers in her home.

Paix and the others like it were all equipped with the same standard amenities so a Musketeer might visit any and know what to expect. There was always an armory  
concealed in either the cellar or the attic, a small amount of coin that could be used to bribe authorities, stores of clothes, uniforms, and disguises, plenty of food and medicines (should a Musketeer arrived wounded or ill), maps, a variety of poisons and apothecary materials, and of course the means to write encoded messages that the house proprietress would then secret away to be delivered.

Paix was to be the staging point for their operation against Buckingham's ship tonight so here they were.

Pushing off the doorway, Aramis made his steps deliberately heavy so Athos, stalking to and fro about the small armory like a caged lion, wouldn't startle. The man ignored him. Well, he would change that in a hurry.

"Athos you are as ornery as a bull with a bur stuck under its tale and twice as stubborn!"

As greeting went, Aramis felt that it was one of his better efforts.

Athos didn't seem to agree. He slammed his saddle bag down onto the worktable pushed flush against the far wall and continued to bang things about like a child.

Behind him Aramis heard Porthos sniff derisively. Of the three of them, their burley brother would seem to be the most likely of their number to be the prima donna when, in actuality, Athos, imbued with all of the entitlement and arrogance inherent in a noble, could put on a proper strop like no other.  
In the intervening minutes, they watched Athos indulge his tantrum.

"Tell me..." Aramis said finally, his voice suddenly demure. The antagonism in his tone had turned downright cajoling and he could see that the false sweetness had set both his friends instantly on alert. "And please be honest because I really can't seem to decide, but..."

He swayed closer still until he was speaking directly into Athos's face.

"...do you plan to find a bottle of something with enough bite to give your tongue a run for its money so you can crawl into the bottle when you've finished? Or do you plan to sulk and pout and stomp your feet until your mind convinces your body that you are not, in fact, a grown man but a sour-tempered child?"  
The tension in Athos's already overwrought frame coiled impossibly tighter. His jaw clenched so that one might fear his teeth would crack from the pressure.

"Well, Athos? What say you? I mean, we haven't got all night, have we Porthos? We have a mission to be getting on with! If you would rather stay here to brood upon all of the ways you believe life has wronged you we certainly won't stop you. We know better than to get in between a bastard and his pride so be assured we shan't interfere."

Porthos seemed to sense that things were escalating too quickly and he took a step forward with an anxious, guarded air. "We are all friends here..."

Aramis threw his head back and brayed out a gay laugh so false and bombastic that it jarred the first unguarded movement from Athos since they'd stepped into the cellar. He continued to laugh with that same forced joviality that twisted what should have been a happy sound into something perverse and chilling.

"We're all friends here, Porthos! Of course, we are!"

Aramis swung around and out stretched his arms in a parody of welcome, grabbing up the man's large shoulders and leaning in to vigorously buss his cheeks. Abruptly he threw a mocking glance over his shoulder at Athos who at last had turned to face them. "With D'artagnan away we are now again only three! That should be quite enough, as it was before. I ask again, what say you, Athos? Are we three sufficient? Are we whole now that we've lost our fourth? Are we better for having driven him away?"

Athos quite suddenly slammed his closed fist against the table, rattling the weapons upon it. "I HAVE NOT DRIVEN HIM AWAY!" he roared. "HE DID THIS! HE CHOSE TO-"  
Aramis shrugged off his own saddle bag which he'd carried in on his shoulder, throwing it violently at the other man. "YOU UNBELIEVABLE HYPOCRITE!"

Porthos moved between them, arms outstretched as if to fend them each off.

"We've each taken a dozen missions where having to use our bodies as tools of the state was our duty. Never have we shamed each other! You know damn well how desperate that boy has been to find his soul mate and how terrified and uncertain he must be right now! What you implied was reprehensible. Your curse was always that your soul mate was a broken thing before you'd ever met her. You believe you see a mirror of yourself and Milady in D'artagnan and Buckingham, but let me tell you something..."

He moved around Porthos slowly, giving the larger man ample time to intercept him. When Porthos merely watched him cautiously, Aramis deliberately pulled out a slip of paper and handed it to Athos.

Athos unfolded it, staring at Aramis with eyes aged eons beyond the fine lines of his handsome face.

Looking down he quietly read out: "Unus pro omnibus, omnes pro uno"

A helpless wet chuckle and he crushed the paper between his fingers.

"I know that he's not..." he grimaced. "She was never... and there were moments when... I wasn't without my own sins, God knows, but there was always something-" He shuddered out a frustrated sighed and tried again, "I- when I tried to I was... and terrible endings often begin with small necessities that..." he opened his mouth and closed it repeatedly. "It only takes a few moral compromises here, an insignificant concession there, and he could... what I mean to say is that..."

Aramis took hold of Athos's hands, squeezing them firmly. "You are forgiven, brother."

Athos's body trembled and he bowed his head over their hands.

Porthos patted his back, obviously trying to be gentle. "I second that, brother. We'll do our best to make sure and certain that D'artagnan isn't ruined by all of this. He loves being a Musketeer and he loves France but..."

Aramis nodded, "But he loves you more, Athos. That boy would catch the moon and hang it above your bed if you asked! He won't make the same choices she did."

"She wasn't always like this," Athos whispered. "She wasn't always faithless."

"To be true you must know your mind and follow your heart. She followed her mind and never knew her heart." Athos nodded, straightening his back and pulling his hands away. He moved to pick Aramis's pack up from the floor.

"Enough of his nonsense! We're Musketeer's, not fusspot at a sewing circle!" 

Aramis and Porthos exchanged a glance. Their laughter was so loud that Aggie started to bang her cane against the floor. "Thilly blithering idiots!"  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
Fidgeting was forbidden, as was shuffling, twitching, wriggling, or squirming. His back must be straight but his shoulders relaxed. He must not speak unless spoken to, avoid direct eye contact unless the conversation requires it to communicate attentiveness, and since he is not used to the heels of his boots, he was strongly reminded not to step too heavily or too loudly. His voice, if he must speak, should be differential and of an even, pleasant tone. Always he should be attentive and watchful while conveying a serene expression that lacks any hint of judgment or unsolicited consideration.

On and on and on and on... rule after rule after scolding rule.... Truly, D'artagnan felt as though they should have carved a likeness of him, painted and dressed it, and  
propped it up in a corner for all he felt it might do a better job at this than him!

His apprehension mounted as the time drew nearer and he found that he didn't have a taste for being in a bother over something he could not amend, delay, or thwart altogether. This led him to performing three redundant parameter checks, two unnecessary assessments of the on-duty palace guards, and one superfluous stratagem review with his fellow Musketeers. Oh, and there had been that one deeply embarrassing episode where a maid had caught him talking himself down from jumping out the long line of windows that flanked the gallery, damn the consequences!

Now, after a fortifying shot of brandy (the maid had been surprisingly sympathetic about the whole thing) he felt more settled or, at least, not ready just yet to use the window exit.

The Queen and her counselors (all men she trusted implicitly) had only arrived a few minutes before. Now she was seated upon the raised dais at the end of the gallery, artfully arranged beneath a regal gold baldachin bearing the royal coat-of-arms. She was surrounded by her ladies, all important women of the court, who wore ornate, harmoniously colored frocks of dove gray, periwinkle, and pale blue; in the center, she stood out as a beacon of youth and purity in white silk decorated with intricate silver flowers.

Even dressed as finely as he was, D'artagnan still felt the poor relation next to her beauty. He had never felt so out of place and uncomfortable in his own skin, no matter Constance's reassurances that he would "grow used to the excesses with time".

"Sir." D'artagnan shook off his straying thoughts. "Sir!"

He muttered an apology and nodded for the lieutenant, Hugo, to continue.

"The English are even now being escorted from their carriages with all due ceremony. Shortly they will begin their procession and make their way here. I have counted no less than eight members of his entourage, the Duke himself not included. All save his priest and his secretary are members of the aristocracy."  
He frowned thoughtfully. Only eight? The Duke was showing restraint. He'd been warned that the English entourage may number three times that, easily.

"Have Lucien and Durant been briefed?"

"Yes, though I think Durant is a little too optimistic about the prospect of catching one of the English dogs in the act."

D'artagnan chuckled, turning his grin into an officious cough. He'd already encountered Durant's peculiar enthusiasm for his assignment. It was expected that the two untitled members of the Duke's retinue, his priest and his secretary, would be held back in an adjacent room while their noble masters proceeded in to meet with the Queen. They were most likely instructed to work in tandem to distract the guards and use whatever time and means available to them to spy. Lucien, dressed as a servant, and Durant, as a messenger, had been tasked with keeping an eye on the two men and putting them -bloodlessly- in their place should they stray where they should not.

"Yes, well, let us hope that his keenness to ruffle English feathers doesn't turn the goose against us." Hugo seemed to sense that he was dismissed and stepped back  
with a smart click of his heels.  
D'artagnan rolled his shoulders. He hated waiting.

To his left, Queen Anne was laughing lightly at some witty thing one of her ladies had said but her eyes followed the Musketeers' exchange. D'artagnan flicked his bright eyes toward the doors on the opposite end of the gallery. She lowered hers, her fan rising to cover her lower face.

They understood each other. It was almost time.

There was no going back. He could only move forward.

Toward what?

Only God knew.

Constance caught his attention over the Queen's head as he fought the desperate urge to fidget. She frowned dramatically at his hip where his hand squeezed reflexively around the hilt of his sword. He released it as if it burned only to begin tapping his fingers against his thighs unconsciously.

Good friend that she was, he was an open book to her and she read his anxiety plainly. Her answer was to wink cheekily and drag her eyes in an exaggerated leer from the wave of his hair, soft-looking and powdered to bring out a shine, to the soles of his boots, which were black and polished from just above his knees to his rounded toes. He rolled his eyes back at her but couldn't help one last fretful check of himself.

What he saw was what he'd seen all evening: a farm boy playing dress up for events that were altogether too grand for him.

Uncomfortably tight dark blue breeches had been tucked down into his boots (more hands than he had felt necessary had been commissioned to help fold him into them) and a silk shirt had been tucked into those. D'artagnan had marveled at the color when it was first presented to him; it looked as if pearls had been melted down and used to spin out the fabric. The shirt followed his body closely until it got to the nape where it laid open to bring attention to his pale and slim neck. Over the shirt had come a doublet in the style of a commissioned officer's military uniform (another special request from the Queen). The pearl buttons down its middle had complimented well the shirt, and all over the doublet was a magnificent deep shade of blue with darker slashed sections on the upper sleeves and collar . Embroidered silver fleur-de-lis were stitched above his heart, matching the metal rendering of the Musketeer's symbol on the leather sword belt. The flow of the jacket followed his body as closely as the shirt but it had a slight flare at the bottom in the back. Constance had whispered that the flare was to make his butt look more round and eye-catching than it already was. It was the most expensive thing he ever owned and he felt completely undeserving of it.

 _"Wealth and station do not give a man security nor dignity, my boy. Nobility is in the heart of a man. Remember that and never forget it. No matter how high you rise... always remember or you will forget your very self."_ His father had ruffled his hair in a familiar gesture from his childhood, then left the table and gone to bed. The next morn D'artagnan would leave home for Paris- and the Musketeers.

He tugged irritably at the cuffs of his doublet. Against his objections they'd been tailored snuggly and buttoned back to make his wrists appear smaller and his hands more delicate. The Queen and Constance had cooed over this effect but D'artagnan had baulked at any part of him being referred to as 'delicate'. No Musketeer was delicate! Even now he fought not to snort in derision.

The doors at the far end of the room were swept open...

Delicate, bah. He was the youngest man to ever be inducted into the ranks of the Musketeers and the Queen and Constance both acted as if he were a wilting flower ready to fall into the arms of-  
“Lord George Villiers, First Duke of Buckingham!”

D'artagnan startled violently, head snapping up as the herald bowed and removed himself from the doorway.

This was it.

It was suddenly time and D'artagnan found he wasn't ready.

He flashed a last desperate look at the row of windows in a moment of madness. He wasn't- this was- He was a peasant! He was a farm boy who had dared to dream of becoming a Musketeer and for all he'd achieved his dream he was still that farm boy at heart. All the preparation and lessons and training he'd received had quite flown out of his head. He became increasingly aware that he was swiftly drowning in a swelling sea of panic and helplessness at this situation. He was not ready, not at all, but there simply wasn't any more time!

The fanfare which usher the Duke into the Queen's presence was magnificent. Musicians scored his entrance with a stately harmony and he was surrounded by an assemblage of the brightly colored French courtiers (those who had been sent to escort him to their Queen) and his own men. There was, however, no greater spectacle than the man himself. As the nominal head of England he was surely used to an audience- and it showed. He swaggered in at the forefront of an entourage counting now two less than Hugo had reported. Just as they'd thought the priest and the secretary were being held back in the outer room.

Despite his fewer numbers Buckingham's presence did not disappoint. His rolling, swaggering gait carried him down the carpeted aisle of the gallery with all the lazy grace of a prowling lion. He did not look about him or behave as if all the flourish was anything but his natural due. It was arrogance at its most imperative yet his ease with it was undeniably fascinating to watch. There was no mistaking it, not even at a distance. His very nature seemed settled to secure him to the center of the world and he wore this power about his shoulders as an ordinary man would wear a cloak.

D'artagnan felt a slow flush burn up his neck and smolder in his cheeks. It was in that moment of watching Buckingham prowl the room that he began to believe how deeply he was in over his head. The man walking toward him would eat him alive.

Desperate to calm his pounding heart and refocus his mind to his task of protecting the Queen, D'artagnan took a moment to look beyond the Duke and appraise his retinue. The English, lords all, were arranged like sparks around the Duke's flame. They wore dark colors in flattering hues of burgundy, black, and gold that so well complimented Buckingham's outfit that the eyes of every witness could not help but be drawn right to him. He himself wore cloth of gold (a fabric so rich it was meant only for royalty) against shades of blue that worked well with his black hair and roguish smile. Like D'artagnan's own outfit it was of a more severe military cut that seemed only to emphasize the Duke's musculature and physicality. The smolder in the Gason's cheeks became a blushing fire.

The Queen rose from her seat upon the dais as poised and calm as if she were taking communion. She held her elbows at her waist, arms open in gentle greeting.

"Lord Buckingham, I welcome you with a glad heart on behalf of the King, Our husband. We look forward to many pleasant, productive hours together that will benefit both our countries and bring our kingdoms closer together in the eyes of God."

"Your Majesty," Buckingham greeted in return. He executed a courtly bow that was such an odd yet compelling mix of convention and style that D'artagnan could see the Queen's ladies were made a touch breathless by it. "On behalf of King James I, I wish to extend England's most humble felicitations and to thank His Majesty King Louis VIII for our most excellent welcome."

The Queen smiled politely.

The Duke gestured to one of his attendants who stepped forward with a small velvet bag, bowing shortly before presenting it to him. Buckingham accepted it with a slow smile, in turn handing it off to one of the Queen's counselors who conveyed it to the Queen.

"A small gift to show our gratitude and our pleasure at once more being in the presence of," his eyes flickered swiftly from the Queen to D'artagnan and back, "true beauty."

His lords, her ladies, the counselors, and the courtiers all clapped as the Queen made a small show at examining and appreciating the gift (a diamond necklace that was almost a parody of the one that had ignited the 'troubles' between their two nations). Her face appeared outwardly pleased but her eyes were not at all amused.  
D'artagnan's lips thinned but he took the opportunity to do a quick sweep of the room while everyone was focused on the Queen. Everything seemed in order and rightly secured. He would have to-

D'artagnan almost swallowed his tongue.

The Duke was staring at him.

More than staring, it felt as the Duke were devouring the sight of him; consuming every inch of his body without moving his head or shifting his hips. D'artagnan didn't know why he was so shocked that this man, this man who was prepared to wage war on England and drag both their countries into ruin, was being so bold in his regard, but he was. Shocked.

He did not look away, or blink, or smile he just... stared.

D'artagnan averted his eyes but he could still feel them like a physical touch against his cheek. It prompted the reflexive twitch of his hand that fluttered from his sword hilt to his chest. His heart was hammering so hard against his ribs that it felt like a caged bird trying to escape. His breathing had become unaccountably erratic. The Duke stood there and openly stared, propriety, apparently, be damned. 

When had he become a castle and the Duke's eyes an invading army laying siege to him? Like a castle he must stand tall and endure but by God it was difficult not to shiver beneath his regard. It seemed like the duke was not going to look away even after the young man who stood a little behind him gave the Duke a small nudge. A quick glance at the young man showed he was dressed more fancy than the rest of the group and he even resembled Buckingham. A brother, perhaps?

"We thank you, Your Grace, and hope that you will accept a small token of Our esteem."

Two footman appeared as if summoned from the air; one carried a round side table and the other a small white box. Between the French Queen and the English Duke the box was set upon the table and the lid carefully removed. From within was lifted an ornate gold clock with rubies set around the face.

The room ohh-ed and ahh-ed as the hour chimed out clearly from the piece. The Duke freed D'artagnan from his gaze at last, chuckling with obvious delight at this gift and bowing respectfully. "You are too generous Your Majesty!"

"We have a gift for our cousin James as well which we hope you will bear back to him when the negotiations have concluded, along with our love."

"Most certainly. I am sure King James will be elated to know his good will toward your Majesties is returned. I know he was deeply saddened by those regrettable events that have necessitated our coming together here. I have relayed to him my faith in France's willingness to do right and put forth the safety and wellbeing of its subjects... no matter the cost."

The Queen's chin lifted, her doll-like face staring haughtily down at the Duke.

"It is good that you understand our priorities so well, Your Grace. As the leaders of France we take the defense of our realm as seriously as a divine mandate should. 

The protection of our people," she tilted her head subtly toward him and D'artagnan deliberately did not look away from her, "all of our people, to heart."

"Your pious observance of your duties does you credit, Your Majesty. I am sure Heaven will smile upon our meeting and resolve our dispute with all due speed. After all, no precedence can be place above peace."

Still refusing to look at Buckingham, fearing his own reaction to him as much as what he might see if he did, D'artagnan hardly heard the Queen's tactful reply.

More words with veiled meanings and vague allusions were exchanged but it was all lost on D'artagnan. Some time passed as the two rulers went through the motions of politic motions, setting up power plays and countering maneuvers. At last the Queen clapped her hands and music once more began to fill the room, this time light and airy as a summer wind.

"Are you hungry, Your Grace?" she inquired, descending the dais on the arm of the highest ranking lord to hand. "We've just received a new cook from Italy, a gift from the Doges of Venice. His way with desserts is extraordinary."

The Duke held out his arm for the Queen to take, which she did. "Sounds divine. I haven't been to Italy in years but I recall that their cuisine was always a singular delight."

They must have made quite the scene, D'artagnan thought as they processed toward the dining chamber. He recalled with some irony all the times he'd been on guard at the palace while dignitaries from lands he couldn't begin to name had been hosted by the King. He'd watched the French courtiers and foreign guests subtly (and sometimes not so subtly) attempted to circumvent each other in order to be closer to the royals. It was common practice to see a Marchioness throw an elbow or a Count pop an ankle. In some ways, he'd mused ruefully, they were more ruthless than even the Cardinal's Guards!

It was the same now as they paraded down miles of candle-lit halls. Set apart from this jockeying, D'artagnan flanked just behind the Queen like a shadow. They could all smell the wonderful dishes awaiting them but if there was one thing that D'artagnan was certain of, it was that he wasn't the least bit hungry. Daring a quick glance at the Duke resulted in D'Artagnan immediately looking away with a flush face and feeling certain that it was not food that the Duke was hungry fore.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *Pauses in the middle of constructing a shrine to ConstantineMK to post chapter before going back to work.*

_What a thing it must be to be rich,_ D'artagnan thought to himself as he observed course after ornate, plentiful course flow in and out of the doors. Each was born by a silent, bland-faced servant on silver platters, tiered glass displays, and gilt trays. More even than had been brought to him during his training with the Queen (which in itself beggared belief). The sheer amount would feed a small provincial village. _What a thing it must be to be rich **and** ignorant of your good fortune, he corrected. _

In the corner of the room a harpsichordist played a merry tune and guests, both native and English, engaged each other in verbal duels veiled as lively conversation. The sounds of clinking glasses, tapping china, and the burble of soft voices filled the room. The smell of floral, oily perfume was only occasionally overcome by the aroma of a particular dish. It made D'artagnan particularly glad to be standing by the fireplace where the smoke killed off any offensive odors before they could reach him.

So far as he understood it, things were going rather well. The Queen was sparkling and vivacious, the Duke epigrammatic and charming, and between and throughout the assemblage tested wit to tongue and humor to sensibilities.

All that being said, on a practical note, as buttery soft as the leather of his new boots were he'd not had them long enough to properly break them in and, as the second hour of the evening meal was drawing on the third, D'artagnan wanted nothing more than to kick them off and be rid of them! Preferably somewhere cool and quiet where he wouldn't be made to endure that laugh (the way it licked up his spine), or the purring repartee in that voice (that lit a fire below his navel), or the way he held his wine glass that-

His jaw clenched and his hands fisted together behind his back in subtle tells of frustration. The Musketeer in him was loath to acknowledge his own distress but his fretful heart could not prevent the show of it. That damnable man hadn't so much as looked to him all evening- not once! It was driving D'artagnan to absolute distraction. Such as it was, his attention swayed between disgracefully negligent and over compensatory. Did the Duke not feel the same... the same ache in his bones that D'artagnan did? Were those provocative looks he'd received during the delegation's introduction been nothing more than a figment of his own mind?

 _This uncertainty was worse by leagues_ , he grumbled discontentedly to himself, _than the anxiety he'd been beset with while awaiting their arrival_. He'd thought (perhaps naively so) that once he'd seen Buckingham again, looked into his eyes and heard his voice, that things would somehow become, well, _clearer_. If anything his mind was murkier than before and his heart more confused and apprehensive.

As he watched the Queen raise her crystal glass and toasted a clever _bon mot_ that had the dining party laughing and clapping, he considered once again what his father would say. Probably that he should stop his fussing and feed the cows. That duty comes before nonsense and that while he is finishing his duties he could ponder on how best to sort the nonsense. His mother... he chuckled quietly, smiling blue eyes surveying the doorways and windows, pretending to preoccupation. She would feed him and say that nothing is so bad as we make it out to be in our heads. Athos would say-

Like the devil, summoned by the mere thought of him, Athos appeared at his side. He'd followed on the tail of the last quartet of servants bearing trays of fresh fruits, fluffy pastries, and tart wine. He stood tall and neatly pressed into his uniform; he showed no signs of hurt or rough handling much to D'artagnan's relief. He knew better than most how dangerous their missions were. Something loosened in D'artagnan's chest, near his heart, that he hadn't been aware had been tense. They did not speak, nor touch beyond a brief nudge of the shoulder, but they communicated between them just the same. _I'm sorry, my boy_ , Athos said. _All is forgiven_ , D'artagnan said, _all is forgotten_. 

Stood back against the wall by the mantle, just a few feet from his Queen, the Gascon's smile became wider and brighter. His duty (he reminded himself vigorously) was all he should be getting on with and so he did. Visually he reviewed the perimeter, verified the faces of each servant that brought food or drink for the Queen (each had been previously scrutinized before he'd personally approved them), kept a keen eye on the English, and that the hands of the guests nearest to the Queen were monitored at all times. Anyone could be coerced into treachery be it through blackmail, bribery, or spite. No matter rank or social status; all it would take was one swift blade, one drop of poison, and all was lost.

And so... he watched.

_They_ watched. 

Finally God answered his prayer but, typical for D'artagnan's luck, it was answered not as he'd _meant_ but as he'd _said_. Dinner was at last concluded (praise be!) but the entertainments were only just beginning (Lord be with him).

The Queen stood, tapping her glass with a spoon for attention. Her cheeks were aglow in the warmth of the room and all assembled fell silent and attended with pleasant smiles. She delivered an elegant speech full of flowery words for the English before she incited all gathered with a jovial laugh to the outer rooms where music played (cued by her words), card and dice games were arranged and waiting, and a play was beginning its first scene. The assemblage applauded their Queen and rose to bow or curtsey before complying with their obvious dismissal.

Remaining at table were the Queen's ladies, her advisors, the English Ambassador, and the English delegation under the Duke. 

At a gesture from the Queen, D'artagnan shared a brief glance with Athos and approached, eyes respectfully lowered and shoulders back. "Your Majesty," he swept a low bow before waiting at ease for her pleasure.

"D'artagnan!" the Queen exclaimed gaily. "The Duke has just expressed to me his wish that you parlay with the head of his Guard. They hope to avoid any unfortunate social faux pas" the irony in her voice was as subtle as the Duke's gift to her had been "and to integrate with Our household as smoothly as possible. We wish to prevent any inconvenience or unintentional insult, in _either_ direction, due to cultural misunderstandings. Your recommendations?"

D'artagnan tipped his chin thoughtfully to expose the golden length of his neck, lowering his eyes until he felt his lashes brush his cheek.

His Queen was a marvel, he reflected, a paragon of her sex! She'd known precisely what hand the Duke would play first. His attempt, being anticipated, was thus nimbly countered. In preparation he'd been made to stand before the settee where the Queen and Constance lounged (with the last of the desserts), having clothes thrown over his head then torn off him all while he'd practiced the wording they'd prepared as if he were a thespian giving some grand declamation. Those hours had been a torment the likes of which Dante himself couldn't have imagined!

Wringing the moment as he'd been instructed, he peeked over at Constance who was covering her smile with some sort of delicate cream puff. She bobbed her head at him as if to say 'well get on with it' and then the minx winked at him!

He really despaired of her sometimes.

"I have the great honor of protecting Your Majesty," D'artagnan recited at last, covering his heart with his right hand and bowing gracefully again, "but as I am not the head of your household security nor the officer assigned to the greater security of the palace, I could not presume to treat on the behalf of those more senior than I. However if my Queen would hear my humble opinion, I would promote my compatriot, Aramis, on behalf of Captain Treville of the Musketeers, to see to this matter. He has long served Your Majesties and his knowledge and virtues are many. I..." the Gascon licked his lips and ducked his head demurely, "greatly admire him and hope one day to be half as keen and swift with a blade as he." 

The Queen's eyes twinkled impishly, her small mouth pursed to prevent any of the wicked humor he knew to be there from showing through. At her right hand, the Duke's face appeared to reflect polite apathy but for the slightest twitch of his mustache and a delicate tightening around his dark eyes. It was enough to know that his insinuations had hit their mark.

"Yes, indeed." Buckingham hummed, rolling his tongue as if he detected a bad taste. "However, I think you do yourself a disservice! Tales of your bravery have traveled even to our fair white cliffs! The noble-hearted and fair D'artagnan who fights for King, country, and the honor of all! You should not speak so dismissively of your..." the Duke leaned forward, eyes raking up and down his body before catching on his shiny bottom lip and staring briefly before returning to his eyes. "Talents."

D'artagnan bit that same lip and watched as Buckingham's gaze narrowed greedily on the sight. "Your Grace is very kind but my abilities are not unique amongst my brethren. As a Musketeer my life belongs to France." 

"And mine to England. We may serve differently, you and I, but a life of service requires an exceptional devotion and in that, I think, we are the same. You are a hero, young D'artagnan! Who better to assist my personal Guard? They value the Queen's safety as dearly as my own and could perhaps be of aid to you in return? I'm certain that this 'Aramis' is a fine fellow however I confess that your assistance would ease my mind and reassure our delegation that France is taking every measure to ensure our protection while we're here to treat for peace. 

"Besides," the Duke chuckled, expressive features coming as close to predatory as he could without giving himself away. "One does always feel more secure when there are familiar faces about, don't you find?" 

D'artagnan felt his cheeks flush. Damn that man's silver tongue! He grasped around for how to best to deflect, what to say, but he found no pithy retort ready because they hadn't anticipated that the Duke would be quite so deft at twisting their device! Had the snake in the Garden been so-so frustratingly (temptingly) devious?

"You're quite right, Your Grace! I could not agree more." The other guests at the table seemed to sense that the Queen's buoyant cheer was more painted on than before and a disquieting trepidation settled like a heavy blanket over the party.

"D'artagnan is one of France's most beloved sons. His talent and fame are quite beyond his years. To put your mind at rest and to reassure your countrymen," she smiled with stilted beneficence upon the English retinue "I see no reason why D'artagnan should not accompany Aramis as, after all, are two Musketeers not better than one?"

The Queen's ladies and the French advisors all applauded their Monarch's adroit parry, an ovation that the English quickly added to (though more reluctantly).

The Queen gestured to a servant who refilled the Duke's glass and her own. Buckingham graciously accepted, lifting his glass to her in a clear pronouncement of well played.

And so the evening wore on.

The hour was growing late but the Queen was as fresh-faced as an angel and seemingly of inexhaustible energies; she gambled at a table surrounded by the Duke and a few other court favorites and notables. Around them stood a number of others like petals 'round a blossom, brightly dressed, cheering and gossiping and speculating in whispers. The mood was spirited, the wine flowed freely, and D'artagnan watched agog as the Queen, the Buckingham, and the nobility laid bets for one hand large enough to by his father's farm three times over. 

"What a thing it must be..." he murmured.

Athos leaned down, hand on his friend's shoulder, and said into his ear, "It's the domestication of the nobility. Have them gamble away their incomes on silly games so that they have nothing left to buy trouble with later."

D'artagnan nodded. The reason made good sense but still... it left him heartsick to think of all the good he could do with so many _livres_. He sighed.

As Athos straightened he left his hand on the young Gascon's shoulder, turning his head unerringly toward the Duke. Buckingham was laying out his cards and tossed a few more coins to the center of the table but his eyes, nearly black and burning with rage, flared as Athos, his eyes a blue so pale and cold they might as well have been rings of ice, squeezed D'artagnan's shoulder companionably. The ownership inherent in the gesture was clear and the fury it inspired in Buckingham ignited the burning into an inferno that scorched his blood. Around them the riotous noises and bustling commotion continued, as did their confrontation, until the Queen reclaimed the Duke's attention and D'artagnan asked his friend another question. 

It was another two spritely waltzes before things seemed to be winding down. The courtiers were obviously fatigued though they tried every means to hide it and the servants who stood, like him, on the edges of the room at attention, seemed to be weary and straining to remain alert.

As D'artagnan spoke with Hugo about preparing the men to escort all important persons to their rooms, he was distracted by a shaken gasp he recognized even from across the room as belonging to Constance. It took only a moment to deduce the source of her upset and what must have happened.

He stepped away from Hugo, ready to approach and offer his aid, but he could see immediately that he was not needed. Constance was already pulling herself away from the now shame-faced man (the very same he'd seen by the Duke's side earlier in the evening). The poor man had committed the very social blunder D'artagnan been warned so strenuously against; he had pulled out a bronze-colored piece of silk, his handkerchief, useless to sop up the spill but the thought was kind. Constance was already holding a napkin to the sleeve of her beautiful gown, provided by a light-footed servant.

The man stepped forward, bowing but haphazardly so, and tried to assist. "I apologize! Please accept my most sincere apologies! I apo- It was an accident and but please allow me to help!"

He cupped Constance's hand, extending her arm so that he could try to dab at the stain. It was extremely poor manners for him to touch her without her permission, being not a close member of her family nor her soulmate, but D'artagnan could not help but feel some compassion for the man as be bumbled to make amends and repeatedly, stutteringly apologized. He was about to turn back to Hugo when he noticed the look on his friend's face, which had suddenly become drawn and pale as a moonbeam. He could not hear the words the two exchanged next but whatever it was said had Constance pulling herself violently away from the man in distress.

The Musketeer's nearest to the disturbance moved forward but did not interfere as Constance was enveloped into the arms of the other ladies-in-waiting. They looked to D'artagnan and when he shook his head they stepped back and returned to their stations.

The Queen rose from her table then, announcing that the evening had been a triumphant beginning and that she held every hope that tomorrow would be similarly auspicious. She wished the room goodnight and collected her ladies. As they walked down the halls, the Duke appeared at his side as if, like Athos, he could be summoned from mere thought of him alone. The two of them walked together quietly for a few moments.

"I do hope that my brother hasn't offended the young lady too badly. He is the most loyal of men but his grace has never been particularly remarked upon."

D'artagnan couldn't help but laugh. "As you say, Lord Buckingham. I know the Lady Constance well and she is as sweet-natured as she is perceptive. I'm certain she will take no offense. Accidents are by definition unintentional and his remorse was plain to see."

The Duke lowered his voice, leaning closer than he'd been before. "You are just as sweet-natured as I imagined you to be, my dear. Tell me, D'artagnan. On lonely nights and in quiet moments have you thought of me and wondered what I might be like?"

D'artagnan tried to swallow but his mouth had gone dry. His breaths were coming faster than a moment ago. "I- Well, I-"

"I have commissioned a coronet for you from the Royal Jewelers in London. Pearls and sapphires set in silver. I will have you honored by my side and answerable to no one but the King Himself." 

D'artagnan tried to school his face into some sort of bland, courtly mask but he couldn't seem to manage it. At last he whispered, "I've wondered if you would be kind. If you would be to me the most loyal of men."

The Duke nodded genially as if they were speaking still about the incident with his brother; his gait relaxed where D'artagnan's was stiff.

"And? Have you your answer yet?"

"How could I?" The Gascon shook his head. "You are as much a mystery to me now as you have ever been."

Buckingham laughed softly. "Ah, I shall endeavor to prove myself then for I have not come all this way, crossed land and sea, only to be dissuaded by my own ambiguity."

The Queen's entourage continued deeper into the palace while the English were led down another hall. As they parted, Buckingham's smile was inscrutable but clearly satisfied.

"Sweet dreams, little one. Until tomorrow."

A hand brushed his own.

Then he was gone and D'artagnan worked to settle his pounding heart and finish his last few duties before he could rest.

 _Sweet dreams..._  
______________________________________________________________________________

He muffled the sound of a yawn into the crook of his arm as he leaned forward to look up and down the corridor.

Still nothing.

He sighed and rubbed at his eyes.

Perseverance through and beyond exhaustion was one of the first proficiencies beat into wet-behind-the-ears Musketeers. The lack of sleep was soon after compounded by strenuous labors, a persistent state of hunger and thirst, and the constant hollering of their training masters who threw them from one impossible task to the next until they were ready to cry, collapse, or break (though for D'artagnan's coin training with the Queen and her sadistic fan had been worse). What followed was a full year of training from dawn until dusk with sword and book since a Musketeer must be both clever and lethal.

Despite having been inducted into the elite unite by the King Himself, and for all there had been unusual circumstances, Captain Treville had never once pampered him or favored him more than any other trainee. He’d been made to face the same rigors and deprivations as any other young Musketeer. At first he’d baulked (he had saved France after all), but after standing at attention for the entirety of a twenty hour guard shift with little time for food, no rest, and having to remain constantly vigilant, well, he’d been thankful beyond words for his training.

D’artagnan covered his mouth, not trying to hold back the jaw-cracking yawn that rolled out of him. Dawn was only a few short hours away and he’d been waiting very patiently he thought but he swore to himself that if she didn’t come out soon he’d-

He straightened as he heard the door opening. He angled himself to see better and indeed her watched her leaving the Queen’s rooms surrounded by several other weary ladies. She was closing the door behind them, her golden hair a halo in the candlelight as she turned her head to murmur something to a doe-eyed young woman with dark powdered hair. The girl nodded, patting Constance’s hand. She sashayed her way between two other ladies, both of whom older than her by years with pinched, sour expressions. The girl hooked their arms with hers and began pulling them along, talking rapidly. After a few moments of reluctance they followed her as she guided them around the next corner corner. 

_“Psst! Constance!”_

He waved his arm around the pillar where he was concealed and when he peeked out he saw that she was making a severe face in his direction and discretely slashing her hand through the air, clearly telling him to ‘shut his mouth and stop acting the fool’. D’artagnan settled down. He couldn’t really argue with that. Stealth had never been his strong suit.

The remaining ladies said their goodbyes and walked together down the hallway, their heels echoing along the corridors. It was nearly a half an hour before Constance was able to make her way back to him.

They moved away from the Queen’s rooms without need of another word; their eyes searched and ears listened carefully for the sound of a servant or a courtier unable to sleep. They did not look at each other or touch until they arrived at a quiet, dark corner that was little used even at a godly hour.

D’artagnan observed Constance’s delicate hands curling tightly around her fan, knuckles bleached white as fish bone and trembling. He reached out and cupped her hands together in his while his thumb rubbed soothingly in a circle.

“What happened?” he whispered finally when it didn’t seem that she would speak on her own.

“He bumped into me. It was an accident. I know it was but I- he touched my hand and we both felt it.” Her low voice was as melodic and lovely as ever but the damp corners of her words foretold of tears.

He moved closer, weaving their finger’s together around the fan in a consoling embrace.

“I just can’t believe” she sniffled, moving her hand away to wipe angrily at her cheek as a single tear fell from her lashes, “that of all the ways I’d meet my soulmate, of all of the countless romantic ways, that it would be as he tries to soak up spilled wine he knocked all over my gown, acting as familiar as you please! In front of the Queen! That gown was a gift from the Queen and now it’s ruined! He ruined it! H-he _ruined_ it…”

D’artagnan knew that it wasn’t the dress she was mourning but her own disillusionment with the fabled first meeting that the stories told her, had told them, they should have. On that, he could sincerely empathize. He’d had his own expectations rewritten by a mad reality that had become his life. He was just sorry that Constance was so unhappy.

“Of any other man I would have assumed some premeditation or an unforgivable weakness for drink that made him clumsy. I would have had done with it. Only…” more tears spilled down her cheeks, “he was so flustered that I was almost embarrassed for him, if you can believe it.”

“Until he touched your hand.”

She nodded, looking lost. “Until then.”

He pressed a fraternal kiss to her brow.

“Oh, darling,” he cooed, lips lifting teasingly at the corners. “Where is that bold brass, hmm? Where’s the lady who threw me to the wolves with a cheeky wink but was always there to guard my back?”

Constance blinked rapidly as if he'd disappeared and then reappeared before her as something wholly different. That dazed look lasted but a handful of moments before she hissed at him and broke away from his hold like a wet cat. She pressed her lips together as if forbidding them to tremble. Her shoulders rolled back and her chin lifted and there was a fire in her eyes now. That fire was what D’artagnan wanted to see and he grinned.

“Now, Constance," he said with feigned solemnity, "as you’ve said yourself, blood feuds have begun for less- so!” He clapped his hands, rubbing them together. “Do I need to help you make war on the Duke’s brother for daring to soil your silks?”

*thump*

“Ouch, gah woman! Damn and blast, that was unnecessary!”

*thump*

“Now what was that one for?!”

“Luck!” she retorted, crossing her arms and tapping her fan against her arm.

Her smile was positively evil.

“Did I say brass? I meant-”

“Don’t be boorish, D’artagnan,” she scolded tartly “we have other things to discuss.”

“Such as?”

“Such as... his name?" He considered tormenting her a little but the defiant yet girlishly vulnerable look she game him slayed him before he could ever defend himself.

"His name is Christopher Villiers, 1st Earl of Anglesey. He is Buckingham's younger brother. He earns a good living and is at present a Gentleman of the Bedchamber to King James."

"If he were anything but English my family might be pleased."

Thinking of Athos, D'artagnan huffed. "I know the feeling."

They studied each other through the shadows.

"We're really doing this aren't we?" she said, quieter than a hummingbird's heart. "We're going to..." her words seemed to fall away, lost.

D'artagnan took her hand and brought it to his chest, cradling it as if by this he could protect her. "We're going to try and we'll do it together, Constance. I have no talent for divination but I do promise that whatever the future holds for you that I will be by your side. The two of us against the two of them."

"It almost doesn't seem fair, does it?" she laughed.

"As they say 'all's fair in love and war'."

"So no mercy then?"

He played at distain and turned up his nose dramatically. "Mercy? Bah! Mercy is a word I know not!"

Constance giggled helplessly, near faint from the excitement and the lateness of the hour.

"I can't help but compare and contrast our circumstances. We have one brother," she held out her right hand "whose careless actions could have started a war if I had been of higher birth and he less apologetic. Then we have the other brother" she held out her left hand, "who threatens to start a war on purpose and who is wholly unapologetic."

D'artagnan winced. "Care to switch?" 

"I saw you licking your lip at him earlier, jezebel! His eyes nearly jumped out of his head! You broke you, you bought him."

He couldn't stop his blush anymore than he could stop Constance from pinching his cheek. He frowned pitifully at her.

"Mercy?"

"No mercy!"


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to my co-author for cleaning up and spit shining this chapter!

"Your Eminence," Milady purred, lowering herself into a graceful curtsey before moving further into the room.

The Cardinal was seat at a small table inlaid with, Milady leaned closer, yes, with mother of pearl and silver. He had laid out before him a chess set carved from polished dark wood with onyx and ivory pieces. He ignored her, carefully studying the board and preparing a strategy. He made her wait there for some time, never once looking at her or acknowledging her presence.

Used to these sorts of dominance games she merely girded herself to wait.

When at last the Cardinal looked up he wore a dispassionate look and his lips were pursed tightly. He passed her a gold cross the size of her palm, decorated at each end by round-cut rubies.

“Milady... It is time you and I discussed mutual salvation.”

She carefully examined the gaudy relic for damp patches or discolored stains that might mean it was dipped in poison and for hidden catches that might suddenly release small sharp blades. Finding nothing malicious she brought the cross to her lips, coy eyes holding Richelieu's, and piously kissed the ruby at the pinnacle.

"Salvation? Forgive me, but I'm just a frail woman and talk of theology would positively turn my head. I have however missed our intimate talks, Your Eminence. Be assured that our parting has indeed made my heart grow fonder and that my joy at being returned to your presence is truly boundless."

Richelieu smiled blandly and folded his hands along the edge of the table. He considered her slowly from the green scalloped lace at the bottom of her skirt to opals around her neck up to the feathers in her hair. He was as apathetic in his observations as an unblinking statue.

"Our parting was certainly unexpected," he said at last, his voice distant. "Your deviation from our plans made quite a mess of things. In addition I do recall a warning I administered when first we began our... acquaintance."

He rose from the table and came to her, that same empty smile fixed in place. He reached out and cupped her cheek.

"It was brief but I trust you remember it." He closed his hand fast as a viper and pulled her chin close, his grip just short of bruising. She moved to throw him away from her only to discover a blade already pressed to her ribs. "Ah, ah, ah, Milady. How quickly you forget. I, however, have forgotten nothing. Your word may be as good as a heretic pleading mercy from God just as the fires are lit beneath the stake but, at my behest, you swore fealty to me. You swore that you would never use your skills and wiles against me. Yet here I find you've spread your... charms wide before a foreign master. How disappointing. I-"

She dropped the cross.

Twisting to the right and sweeping her left arm out to propel the Cardinal's momentum and hence his blade away from her, she pulled a blade of her own and slashed at his shoulder, cutting a thin seam in the blood red robes. She held the blade out before her, prepared to defend herself if he came near her again.

"My charms are used where I best please, Your Eminence. Your worry over my allegiances is touching but please allow me to put your mind to rest. You are still the highest bidder. My," her eyes fluttered down to her breasts, then to the knife, "charms are all yours."

Richelieu fingered the tear in his silks, sighing as if dismayed. He twisted the blade in his hand and returned to his seat at the table. His blade disappeared back into whatever sheath he had hidden on his person. With his robes being so voluminous it was hard to tell but her bet was the inside of his upper left arm.

He clapped his hands and turned his attention once more to the game board, offhandedly gesturing for her to take the seat opposite him. As she arranged herself in the horrendously uncomfortable guest chair, she hid her own blade in the stiff ripples of apple green taffeta that filled her lap.

Inspecting the pieces, Milady puckered her lips and frown delicately. "You still haven't gotten very far in your game I see," she tutted. "Even now do you find one side or the other not up to the challenge?"

The Cardinal glared at her from under his heavy, dark brows.

"Explain how we came to this, Milady. Now."

She nodded and began.

"I prepared the Duke by disclosing the weaknesses and clever tricks associated with each of the Three. Athos surmised this course and adapted their strategies thusly. Though the creativity involved leads me to imagine that the Gascon had his hand in it as well. Athos never was a great one for imagination."

"You were outmaneuvered."

"These things do happen, even to the best of us."

"Hmm." He moved a pawn. "The Musketeers came into possession of the pardon I wrote you."

"Yes. It was a dreadful time for me. They took all of my things and left me with naught but the dress I wore!" She daubed artfully at the corner of one eye. "I barely retained my modesty! I do suppose though that propriety may be excused when one is fished out from the sea with as much gentleness as the sea monster who gave up Jonah."

Milady lowered her eyes and sniffled. She could see the man's jaw clench and his eyes narrow.

"What, pray tell, were you doing in the sea that you needed to be liberated from it?"

"Through a combination of admittedly inventive preparation and no small deception the Musketeers made me their prisoner aboard their stolen airship. They sentenced me to death for my treason and at once carried out my punishment. I plummeted into the sea and to what I believed was my final conclusion."

"And Buckingham resurrected you. What a happy ending."

"As you say. He is a fool but it cannot be said that the Duke is wasteful of his tools."

"Now that the past has been accounted for you must answer for tonight." The Cardinal smiled genially but there was no emotion behind it, as if his eyes were made of glass and the dead thing inside was looking out at her. It made her want to shiver. "I know very well that you were about to run off to gather secrets. What I would like to know, my dear, is what secrets specifically are you looking for? What does Buckingham want to know?"

"I was given no specific instruction other than to listen for anything that might give him an advantage."

"Have you heard anything yet that might give him that?"

"Why would you think I've heard anything yet? I hav-"

The Cardinal slammed his fist against the table, upsetting the ivory rook and making the other pieces jump. Milady didn't so much as flinch but her hand strayed to the knife.

"Do not," he righted the rook "test my patience. Now. What does he want?"

"Your Eminence forgets that Buckingham is simply not as devious as you are though he likes to think he is. He is a simple man, if clever. His intentions were honestly stated when he sent me on his behalf to the Queen. He is angry over the destruction done to his Tower and consequently his reputation, and he is furious about his airship being in French hands. He shudders that we may learn to replicate the plans and build our own, though the English have had more time to perfect and enhance the design."  
Richelieu waved his hand dismissively. "Much of this is already known to me. Men like Buckingham tend to forego prudence when angered. What I had not predicted and what in the end has saved all of our plans is the Duke's interest in the littlest Musketeer! His demands that the boy return with him as a hostage are so transparent as to be insulting. Does he really think that no one will understand what he means by this?"

"The Gascon?" Milady effected a confused expression.

"Yes," the Cardinal mocked, "the Gascon. He is a comely young thing but I had not thought he would become a veritable Helen of Troy."

Milady smiled as if his comments were droll but behind her demure mask she was busy creating a balance sheet for her future. She posited myriad scenarios and their outcomes, weighed her options, her possible opportunities, and the likely hood of her survival for each.

Upon hearing the vague beginnings of the Duke's plan (what little he would disclose) she'd known that the Cardinal would, posthaste, summon her to his side and that she would be pressed back into service as a double agent immediately. She would have liked the luxury of time to prepare and take in the 'lay of the land', so to speak, but time was not an extravagance she could afford. So instead she chose to barter for that precious commodity: knowledge in exchange for time.

"Buckingham brought with him his brother. Christopher, I believe his name is. Younger than the Duke and foolish as young men are. He was afforded both his position as a Gentleman of the Bedchamber and his Earldom by his brother's beneficence as no great deeds or friends of note precede him."

"I am aware of him."

"Are you also aware that Christopher was with his brother at the Tower the day the Musketeers took a canon to it?"

"Is that so?" The Cardinal stroked his chin and seemed to be staring through the board between them, listening intently now.

"Hmm," Milady hummed, tilting her chin thoughtfully. "One can only imagine why the Duke would choose to bring him to France when he has neither the political astuteness nor the martial skill to aid him in his endeavors here. Why, I would almost call it sentimentality but then, we are speaking of George Villiers. A colder hearted bastard I've never seen." Milady seemed to catch herself, leaning forward and redressing her mistake with, "Present Company excluded, of course."

"You are right to conclude that the Duke and I are much the same, Milady. We both tolerate your tongue in deference to your mercenary lack of morals and the prowess of your talents but unlike him you will find my patience has its limits."

A spastic, burning itch began in her palm, spreading out to her fingers, and a queer anxiety slammed into her like a wave. It stole the air from her lungs and her mind plunged into a blurred, swimming sort of daze. She looked down at her hand, fingers of the opposite hand already digging in to her skin, and she saw the blood dripping from her fingertips and pooling in the small hollow at her wrist. There, laying in her palm, where the itch was strongest, sat the jagged shard of broken glass and the presence of a being dancing on the edge between civil and feral close enough to raise goose bumps.

_"Don't fail me, Milady... I think you know what I'll do to anyone who stands in my way."_

An ivory knight fell to an onyx rook, the defeated piece clacking against the board.

Startled, but her body too well trained to move, Milady blinked back down at her unfurled hand. There was no blood, no glass, but still it itched. The goose bumps also remained.

"Underestimate Buckingham at your peril, Richelieu" she murmured.

The Cardinal chuckled. "I never underestimate anyone, my dear. That is why I'm still alive."

She bowed her head in deference to his words. The excuse to hide her eyes was convenient.

"Be sure to watch the brother. If luck is with us he will do something indiscrete and we can play him to our advantage. If Buckingham has fraternal feelings we may exploit all the better. We may find this game better laid for us than before if we're careful.

"What else have you to tell me?"

"That the Queen has not only taken diplomatic measures to prevent the Gascon's use as an English hostage, but she now she has taken him for a doll! She dresses him in the most handsome Parisian fashions and I have heard whispers that his manners and deportment are improving apace with his style. The Queen seems to be wholly focused on this game between herself and the Duke, so much that she has neglected advising her husband on other matters of state as was her custom."

"I too have noticed that poor Louis has seemed adrift these past days. He may be a man now but he hasn't found his teeth yet. If we can keep the Queen diverted on this matter perhaps we can have our way in others."

With this statement Milady sensed that their tête–à–tête was at an end. The Cardinal rose and escorted Milady to the door. Before he opened it he grabbed her wrist and pulled her close.

"Remember. I have forgotten nothing. If you betray me there will be no reprieve, no matter your beauty or abilities. With a flick of my wrist I will have your head."

Milady lifted her perfect porcelain face to his. Her burning, pale colored eyes set above and a malicious, bitter smile.

"You've said twice now that you've forgotten nothing," she spat "but I believe you should pause and reflect a while. Pride is a sin, you know. You say that with a flick of your wrist you would have my head but please remember, Richelieu, that with a flick of my wrist I could change your religion."

Just below his waist, Richelieu felt the pricking point of a dagger pressing through his cloak stabbing lightly at his manhood.

Milady pulled free her wrist, curtsied politely, and knocked on the door. The doors swung open for her just as she removed the wicked steel from the Cardinal.

"Your Eminence."

Milady walked free from the room, dagger hidden from plain sight right next to the gold cross the Cardinal had presented to her (she'd managed to collect it on the way out of the room). She had intended to use it to thrash him but, well, it would make a wonderful bit of insurance in case she needed to flee quickly and was without time to gather funds.

If it wasn't needed then she would buy herself a beautiful new gown with ribbons and yards of lace, all courtesy of the Cardinal.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is the updated chapter that was promised. Its longer and fuller than the last one. I hope to start making longer chapters since you all have been so patient with me. *ties ConstantineMK to me so that we cant be separated again.*
> 
> This is the last update on this chapter.

"Thank you, boy." George swept his hand toward the door in a shooing motion. "That will be all." The page nodded, bowing deeply before removing himself from the room. His departure was marked with nary a sound.

        The hour was late and the rest of the household abed. Beyond the crackling and snapping of the fire and the scratch of his quill-pen nib against the page all was quiet. This was the rarest measure of peace in London and a pleasure he had not thought to hope to expect in Paris. Whereas at home he was never left to himself long enough to say his prayers let alone accomplish the good work expected of his station, here, in these precious few hours after midnight but before the dawn, he was turning out efforts that would have taken him days at Hampton Court.

        He wrote letters and made plans, encoded all, and sealed them with warm, sweet smelling wax and the press of his signet ring. In the morning they would be smuggled out and sent abroad to foreign lands, fickle governments, and to his own palace back in England. While he was here in France to claim what was his, matters across the channel and throughout Europe did not stop to wait with bated breath for his affairs to conclude. James' dependence on him must not wane by the slightest degree lest his power and supremacy taper in the same. His diligence must be as constant as his love, and as uncompromising.

        The Duke blinked rapidly, digging his fingers into the bridge of his nose. He was weary beyond all reckoning. He did privately wonder (between himself and the ache in his back) if this wasn't perhaps a sign that he was growing old.

        After all, a few short years ago it had been nothing for him to ride for days on end over rough terrain with only burnt bread and hard cheese to sustain him. His early twenties in particular had been marked by a thirst to prove himself as agile with a blade as he was with his tongue; battles lasting for hours in heavy armor under torrential rains, scorching sun, and winter gales alike had daunted him not at all.

        The world had been his for the taking!

        Fucking, fighting, feasting, and forging a name that would live on long after his bones were dust!

        To the indefatigability of youth!

        George chuckled at the absurdity of it all. Now it seemed that a day spent of plotting, an evening at table, and a night of letter writing were enough to run him aground so that he was quite ready to concede to his creaking bones that it might be time for bed.

        His chuckle became a regretful sigh as he turned his mind away from those nostalgic daydreams of victories past. As he physically moved away from the soaking warmth and cheery light of the fire he felt the chill in his bones only too apt.

He stood before making his way to the fireplace, arms crossed, with the look of a man whose thoughts had taken him far away.

        _In his mind's eye he watched his eldest brother, John, jumping from his horse before the beast had properly stopped, swinging their mother up into his arms and laughing with such joy that none of the family would have recognized him from his smile, dower as he usually was. The family and their servants had gathered around the courtyard to hear what miraculous happening had brought on such giddy elation in sour John!_

_"Love!" John had shouted, bussing their mother's cheeks again and grinning madly. "Love such as no poet has mourned and no song has exalted! I have found the betterment of an earthly heaven and now have no need for salvation!"_

_Their mother had tutted at his blasphemy but had taken her son's hand anyway, begging him to tell them more about this happy news. John went on until they begged him to stop, singing the praises and extolling the beauty of his newly found soulmate, Francis Coke, daughter of Sir Edward Coke._

_George's lips curled briefly remembering how love-struck his normally stoic brother had been. Their younger sister, Susan, had on the other hand been less overt in her happiness. She would look upon the face of her soul mate, William Feilding, with a sweetness and sort of guileless wonder as if his presence at her side were a constant pleasant surprise. She had taken George's hands in hers on the day of her wedding and kissed each in turn._

_"He's waiting for you, George," she'd said with tears in her eyes. "Hold fast only a little while longer. For all you do for us, I know God has not forgotten you, brother!"_

        God had not, it seemed. Of the four Villier children, only himself and Christopher had not secured their mates though perhaps he would not stay on that dubious list for long. It had taken decades but now he was on the cusp of the same jubilance and contentment as his other siblings had found.

        In the darkest corner of the room there was a couch upholstered in queen's blue silk that was pushed flush against the far wall. There George settled himself as he went about divesting himself of his court regalia and finery. First his boots; they fell to the floor with one solid thud followed by another. Then he carefully removed his ornaments and several hidden weapons, shed his outer garments (mindful of the Cloth-of-Gold), and, finally, he shucked his under clothes. These things were all tucked away out of sight in a small chest hidden beneath the couch. At last he slid into his evening dress which he had removed from the chest before arranging his things back into it.

        He would sleep in the sitting room on the narrow trundle bed that had been, as far as public knowledge was concerned, erected for his valet, Thomas.

Earlier in the evening Thomas himself had affixed a dark wig to his head and painted on the likeness of facial hair before climbing into the downy-softness of the gilt monstrosity that the French called a bed. There he lay even now in a parody of peaceful repose, prepared with a pistol and more than a few sharp blades to thwart any would-be assassins who might, by secret means, enter the bedchamber prepared for the Duke.

        Between himself and Thomas they had perfected this bait-and-switch tactic during a prior State visit to a hostile, spiteful Spain. On one memorable occasion the precaution had proved itself into tradition, saving his life during one ridiculous yet surprisingly dangerous night in Calais which had involved a prostitute, a Catholic priest, a cow named Mortimer, a stolen painting by a Dutch master, and 3 carrots. The fewer thoughts he wasted on that inglorious mess the better.

        As for the trundle bed, well, it was perfectly serviceable and with his sword to hand beneath the blanket and a dagger tucked under his pillow his dreams at least would be secure. On campaigns and certainly in his formative years he'd slept in worse places; a crick in the neck was worth waking up in the morning.

        Pouring himself a final glass of mulled wine he moved to sit before the fireplace again, sipping and meditating on the sizzle and pop of the blackening wood as it was consumed. He stared deeply into the flickering flames as his left hand reflexively stroked the sleek lines of his beard.

        Another mouthful.

        A twitch of his lips.

        Sparks spit and fizzled in the fire.

        He tipped his head back.

        His eyes slid closed.

        He sighed once more but heavier now as if the fatigue had finally possessed him entirely. Would that he could sleep... but no. He found himself helpless to do little else but repeat the events of the evening _in perpetuum_. It was the price he paid for being so close yet so far away; that he must exist, at least at present, in this hateful limbo.

        Haunted. That's surely what he was.

        His nights, once sweetly anticipatory, had soured at this enforced separation from his mate... his beloved... the one he had been waiting for the entirety of his life. The sick, sour feeling curdled further each minute he was left to dwell without the sunshine of his angel's smile until it felt hungry and damning and zealous. It was the hot stirrings of his own libidinous lust, the iron tang of his jealous anger, the indissoluble itch in his mind that bayed within him like a wolf to the moon.

         _Grasp_ him.

         _Claim_ him.

         _Possess him_.

        In the memories of the earlier evening, still so vivid and so close, he could perfectly see those passionate, beckoning blue eyes... hear that richly accented voice... breathe in that intoxicating scent that rolled on the air when he moved. George sucked in a deep breath as his limbs loosened and he relaxed into the chair's cushions. He swore he could smell it now, hours later; the stiffness of new leather, the crispness of cold flowing water, and something- something homely and sweet like vanilla and fresh honey comb.

        His bewitched mind strained for just one more impression, one last enslaving sensation but like a ghost the image faded as the glowing embers cracked apart in the hearth and his eyes snapped opened.

        He sat straighter in his chair, rolling his neck and stubbornly swigging half of his glass. Haunted indeed. Best to master this phantom of the heart before the madness overcame him and he damned the consequences.

        "Damn the consequences..." he muttered against the lip of his glass.

        He had much to consider if he wanted to do this right but by God how he wished he could carry D'artagnan off as they did in times of old! That he could claim that exhilarating mix of beauty and bravery for himself and carve a bloody swath through any gainsayers or interlopers with the impunity of his right! If none other than Lord had destined his mate for him then who but God Himself could come between them? Alas that things were a bit more complicated in this modern world- more was the pity!

        To avert a war here he was paying lip service to the _French_ , staying his sword when the military advantage was clearly his, and attempting with diplomacy and subterfuge to win his mate to him. His stallion was worth every headache and double-edged, politic answer he had been forced to bandy with the Queen over supper but- still.

        It galled like nothing else.

        The experience of the State dinner itself had been an exercise in forbearance and little leniency did his mind have for the lesson. D'artagnan had been so near to his touch and yet, like the Madonna, he had been untouchable and sacrosanct. The only comfort had come from knowing that as surely as his own defenses had been breached (and they had, deeply) that he'd cracked his mate's professional, soldierly facade just the same. Beneath that youthful gallantry lurked the same temerarious spirit that had challenged him at the Tower. It was there in the insolent tilt of his smile that made George's mouth water and his fists clench to keep from pulling him close and making off with him.

        In the shadows cast by the low-burning flames he could almost see his Gascon's face.

        Such an innocent countenance, so earnest. With eyes the same blue as the sky after a storm in the Marches. They smolder and beg him; for what they knew not but George, he knew all too well. He yearned just the same. And what a warm, honeyed, insidious yearning it was! It had stirred him to attention even in such a public arena. Never had he been more thankful for the blessings of a high table than at that moment!

        While his desires fermented he'd outwardly drawn around him the glossed veneer of his station. Years of practice, a talent for mimicry, and a deftness for satire and witty repartee had on this occasion, like so many others, held him in good stead. He'd charmed the Queen's table to the last lady. He wove exciting tales of his travels throughout Europe and spun salacious though harmless gossip about the English court. This preening, boastful Peacock he pretended at was an affected persona that he'd cultivated for years as a means to both protect himself and encourage others to underestimate him. As always, it appeared to work marvelously well.

        George's black eyes glazed over in remembrance. He could almost imagine that the golden, flickering licks of the fire before him were the same color as Anne's hair and that the white, veined marble of the mantel piece was of a similar shade to the silk of her gown. In his mind's eye he was seated at the head table again...

 _Earlier that day_ …..

Standing on the cusp of what felt suspiciously like destiny made this day one of the more trying of his life (which was quite a feat consider all of the time he’d spent at the more pernicious of the European courts). The day itself would not be difficult. Adulating the Queen and entertaining her circle would not be hard. It would be standing in the same room, breathing the same air, as his soulmate but being unable to approach him without drawing attention to them and possibly putting him in danger.  

He had to to make a statement of strength when facing France but he was also determined to make a good impression on his little honeycomb. He had secured a quartet of the best musicians in Paris to play in stately harmony upon his entrance and he’d personally inspected his retinue to ensure that not a stitch was out of place. He’d reminded them of the importance of prudence in their dealings with the French, recited rules of courtly etiquette, and reiterated the international importance of these negotiations. They each swore in turn to see his will done as if it were their own.

Now, George did not consider himself a vain man but he was aware of how important it was to keep up one’s appearance; image and control of that image meant influence. That being said, he had spent more time than he would ever admit in good Christian company in front of the mirror trying on suit after suit to decide which one would be best. In the end he decided that Cloth-of-Gold was the superior choice as it would advertise his wealth and status, and therefore his ability to prove for his mate. The severe military cut was also for D’Artagnan’s benefit. He wanted him to know he’d served his King on the battlefield and that he carried that authority with him. The stylish silver belt and buckle contrasted perfectly with the suit and his boots were polished to a high shine.

The finishing touch was the bulb ear ring that his mother had given him. His sister had teased him mercilessly that it made him look like a handsome devil. He certainly hoped that D’artagnan thought so.

His mirror reflected back the small, affectionate smile he could not help at the thought of both his mother and his sister as he secured the earring in place. His dear mother wanted nothing more than for her children to find their soulmates and live happy lives with them. Now it was his turn to claim his mate and George Villiers, second of his name and first Duke of Buckingham, would do so with power, guile and _style_. The power he’d schemed for. The guile he’d used to wield that power. The style that advertised his ascendency to anyone he graced with his presence. He’d earned his place a thousand times over and he let that knowledge settle around his shoulders like a fur-lined mantle.

He let his mind clear of all things but his purpose and his future.

His remained focused and his consciousness free of the cluttered minutiae that doubt usually brought with it. As he made his way into the French palace his composure did not falter but his younger brother, Christopher, did. He stumbled over a hard patch of air (a chronic issue with him unfortunately) and bumped into his back nearly taking them both down. George sighed, eyes rolling heavenward in supplication even as he reached behind himself to steady his brother. Really, he despaired that Christopher would ever be able to walk more than a few feet without injuring himself or others.

He patted his chagrined brother’s arm gently before they set off again.

In no time at all the doors to the Queen’s gallery opened and George knew one of the greatest performances of his life was under way. His name was announced and he swept into the room as if it and everything therein belong to him alone. It was all said in the swaggering sashay of his step that John had mockingly termed his ‘pirate walk’. He ignored all of the French attendants and courtiers fawning and dogging his steps; they were his due and not to be acknowledged. His attention was completely set on the far end of the gallery.  

He had to admit (if only to himself) that this imminence to his goal was eliciting in him an amorous yearning for softer things than his life had ever allowed him to desire before. He'd been with men and woman, he'd lusted and lost himself in the licentious pleasures of the flesh. He'd drunk himself to excess, gambled, issue black oaths, and committed and commanded great violence. Yet this evening, as he entered the French palace on his own great airs, he'd been struck to the very heart of himself upon seeing his brave Musketeer standing at attention behind his Queen.

Physically D'artagnan was a diamond dropped amongst pieces of murky quartz; his ageless grace, youthful beauty, and purity of intention were facets that gathered his virtues and reflected them out to all who looked upon him. In a room of finely formed faces his was the perfection that set the standard for all.

George drank in the face that haunted his every waking moment since the incident at the Tower; skin like cold milk stirred with golden honey, long lashes fanning blue flames that burned with righteousness and pride and vitality, bowed lips bitten to a tempting flush.

"Lord Buckingham, I welcome you with a glad heart on behalf of the King, Our husband. We look forward to many pleasant, productive hours together that will benefit both our countries and bring our kingdoms closer together in the eyes of God."

"Your Majesty." He bowed to the Queen to the letter of propriety but with his body he began his seduction of the little nymph in the corner who had yet to take his eyes off him. "On behalf of King James I, I wish to extend England's most humble felicitations and to thank His Majesty King Louis VIII for our most excellent welcome."

All was running apace with his plans as he and Anne conversed and he then presented her with the necklace (a petty indulgence on his part which, as expected, she did not seemed to appreciate).

"A small gift to show our gratitude and our pleasure at once more being in the presence of," his eyes flickered swiftly from the Queen to D'artagnan and back, "true beauty."

The court clapped. Their eyes met. And George was reborn again.

Of course he'd known... it was the entire reason for all he'd done and yet... To be faced as he was with the other half of his soul after such a very long time, but not being able to take him into his arms, was akin to finding a lake as you're dying of thirst but only seeing it from across a parched desert. He wanted to possess this pretty young thing and ravish him endlessly but just as much did he want to simply caress his cheek, see to his comfort and health, and hold him close to his heart. It was a new experience for him, this tenderness.

If George had been less than a Duke, less practiced and polished and less of a political animal, he might have gawked but instead he simply stared as casually as one might study a work of art.

His angel was a vision in blue; so beautiful that George had the urge to call for a painter to immortalize the image forever. His doublet was of a simplistic military-cut (similar to his own) but in a French style appealingly fitted across his proud shoulders and down his slender torso. The braiding at the hem accentuated the narrowness of his waist. The trousers were a blue so dark it was nearly black, like a raven’s wing, and they cupped his shapely legs as a second skin. George rued that he could think of no believable reason to encourage D’artagnan to turn around so he could just see how tight those trousers really were. Such a shame! The pearlescence of his shirt compliments the color of D’artagnan’s clear skin while the artful folds at his neck drew the eye unconsciously to the soft, vulnerable length that incited within George the urge to mark it so all know to whom D’artagnan belonged.

No matter how beautiful the clothes or how fine his presentation the one thing that captured his attention above all was his mate’s face. The hair that had been dirty and tousled when he had been dragged into the Tower had been brushed with sweet oils until it shined in the candlelight like a halo. His cheeks were pink, his nose well formed, but his eyes!

Those eyes overthrew him.

D’artagnan himself appeared to be visually sweeping the room over the heads of the courtiers, inspecting the doors and windows before circling back to scrutinize those closest to the Queen. As they landed on him it seemed to George that time stopped.

The gallery dimmed.

The rustling and shifting of the French aristocracy faded away.

The Queen became nothing more than a shadow.

The colors and shapes in the periphery of his vision bled together until there was only his mate’s eyes.

They widened in a charmingly bewildered way as if this tenuous connection they shared was communicating to D’artagnan the ferocity of the emotions he felt for him, while he could sense his beloved’s obvious trepidation and helpless curiosity. George did not, perhaps could not, look away.

Their personal moment was cut short when his brother jostled him discretely, only half succeeding in bringing his attention back to the Queen as she thanked him wryly and presented her gift to him. The unveiled timepiece was exquisite and clearly of Swiss make. The message etched in delicate script was as unequivocal as it was prescient: _Tempus Fugit_. She didn't know how right she was. Time was ticking down on them all. He was determined that upon the last strike peace would be his, in all ways- or he would make certain that this world would never know peace again.

_______________________________

As he escorted Anne into the dining hall they shared a pleasant conversation on the benefits of employing cooks from abroad. They were just sharing their opinions on the new delicacies out of Italy when they reached the table and together they were seated with much ceremony and pomp. God knows no one does pomp and circumstance like the English but the French knew how to draw it out interminably.

From here the stage was set, the spirits poured, and the food was flowing from the kitchens in plentiful abundance. The Queen's ladies were buoyant, beautiful, and buxom, the courtiers droll but wary, the counselors somber and dignified, and his own retinue vigilant yet merry. It was a scene any court painter would have loved to take a brush to.

        This convivial atmosphere allowed for such enthusiastic banter that George felt he might yet be able to wring some fresh intelligence from the Queen after all. He had begun to despair of how neatly she'd been avoiding all of his verbal snares.

        If nothing else it could be said that George Villiers was adaptable (and more than a little opportunistic) and so he planned to remain at a level with the Queen for the duration of the meal; step for step in all manners and polite aggressions until an opening could be used to press his advantage.

        He sighed to himself.

        More waiting.

        At a lull in the conversation he took his first chance. A nostalgic gambit to start, he decided. Savoring the taste of his last bite of lamb he turned to the Queen.

        "If I do recall rightly you were quite an extraordinary equestrian once upon a time. Do you still ride, Your Majesty?"

        Anne laughed blithely, her earrings catching the candlelight. "Your recollections are clouded by fondness, I'm sure! I have a fine stable with many beautiful horses of excellent pedigree. I still find as much joy in my daily rides as I ever did as a young girl."

        George playfully tisked her modesty as the rest of the table laughed. "I won't believe that you are not now the most accomplished horsewoman in all of Christendom! When last I saw you take a horse through its paces I can remember thinking to myself that here was a great lady. Horses are excellent judges of character and to witness your grace with them I knew that God smiled on you." He daubed a bit of plum sauce from his lip. "Talent such as yours should not be wasted while your passion for it remains so bright."

        Anne accepted his compliments with the sort of blasé hubris that comes so naturally to royalty. It made him smile behind his napkin. He leaned in closer to her and kept his voice deliberately low.

        "I also seem to recall that you harbored a secret ambition to run away and become a famous horse breeder. That you were ready to cross Arabia and beyond in this pursuit should your father forbid you!"

        Anne's thin, petal pink lips lifted at the corners and her eyes held a far away twinkle. "Oh... oh yes. I'd quite forgotten. That fancy was such a long time ago."

        Slowly, George had lifted a slice of orange that had been used to garnish his plate and held it out to the Queen, making sure to gently caress her fingers as she accepted it. "The wishes of our childhood never truly leave us, I think. We either gild them in the hallowed halo of memory, there to stay immortalize as if in amber but unrealized, or we see through our dreams into the waking world and make them into our new reality."

        Anne nibbled on the fruit thoughtfully.

        "And yours, Duke? What was the wish in your heart all those years ago?"

        "Too many years to count!" he chuckled, sprawling artfully back in his seat. "However you and I share a mind in this as in so many things. I dreamt of a stallion, strong and beautiful and fearless, who would yield to my hand alone and follow me unto adventure and glory! Together we would be the stuff of legends!"

        As the next course was laid before them and the old whisked away he held the Queen's shrewd, narrowed eyes meaningfully. Her discrete reproval said she knew that he'd been thinking about a very particular breed of French stallion that could only be found in a specific region of Gascony.

        He smirked. Then he winked at her.

        She signaled sharply for more wine and snapped her fan open to conceal the tart twist of her expression.         

        Dinner was just coming to an end when George noticed a figure slipping into the room with the shadows like some fairy-tale villain. It had all been going so terribly well that it was no wonder that of all the thorns to appear at the side of his lovely young rose it had to be him.

The man stood tall and neatly pressed in his uniform moving quickly and quietly around the edges hall. George did not fight the darkness that clouded his mood like fog rolling through an evil wood. Especially at the sight of the welcoming grin on D’artagnan’s face and the more relaxed posture that he seemed to have adopted since Athos appeared.  

        Athos.

        God how he hated that man!

        He loathed how the tension in his mate's narrow shoulders melted away at his mere presence.

        He despised the turns of relief and then happiness that flicked across his mate's face.

        He abhorred that there should be any reason whatsoever for that disgraceful waste of a noble blood to receive the radiant, indulgent smile his D'artagnan charitably bestowed upon him!

        All the Saints knew how desperately he wanted to throw himself up from the table and wrap his bare hands around the throat of that malcontent drunkard until they were white-knuckled and shaking! How he craved to wring every last drop of insignificant life from his eyes before taking his unworthy head!

        He'd done far more for far, far less. His disgust simmered over the fire of his anger while he face smiled benevolently and his voice carried gaily around the table.

Suspicion tickled the back of his mind when Athos met his eyes and leaned closer to the young Musketeer. Did he want a knife through his throat? Or perhaps he could cut out his still beating heart with the gold-plated spoon he was now using with his leek soup?

Decisions, decisions.

He washed the bitter taste of his hate down with a sip of wine. Athos was a matter for another time so long as he kept his hands to himself. George concentrated on his meal, the lively conversation, and on his plan.

As the last crumbs of crust and drops of fruit jam were being wiped from his fingertips George clapped his hands together.

        "Your Majesty that was the finest meal I believe I've ever had. Thank you for allowing me a seat at your table this evening. My welcome has been as memorable as it has been pleasurable."

        Anne ignored the servants gathering her refuse, smiling agreeably. "You are always welcome at our table, Your Grace. You are of course very dear to Us."

        "Of course, yes..." he'd repeated ironically. "There is one minor matter I had wished to discuss with Your Majesty while the night is still young."

        "Speak freely, My Lord."

        The Queen leaned forward as gracefully as a bird alighting upon a branch, attentive but cautious. George knew she would not give him an inch but for this gain he was willing to do battle.

        "With the length of my stay as yet undetermined and with the outcome itself still so uncertain, my conscious has been burdened by a great many troubles, not the least of which is the safety of your royal person. I have with me a modest number of my own personal guard who, as a matter of good faith, have remained aboard my flagship in honor of our parlay agreement. As outlined in said agreement, a few of my best men are prepared to join me here on the morrow as protection against the nameless, remorseless heterodox who would see us before God rather than beneath a white banner.

        "Now I am a man who has been to war and seen the cruelty that makes of us more beast than son of Adam. I fear not for myself. For you, however, Your Majesty, I do feel a fearsome anxiety. Even amongst your brave Musketeers who would, I know, give their very lives for yours I cannot help but be concerned. With all that stands before us I would not have any conflict between your men and mine put you in further danger. Tensions being what they are and with the differences between the English and the French being so... distinctive," Anne's fan only just hid the quirk of her lips at his creative use of understatement, "it might be wise to discuss a way we might proactively avoid any unfortunate bellicose drama. At the same time our men might work together toward the protection of us both and thus the wellbeing of these talks and both our countries."

        "An thoughtful notion, Your Grace. Your concern does you credit. What did you have in mind?"

        "The celebrated Musketeer D'artagnan is head of Your Majesty's security during our negotiations, is he not? He could counsel my lieutenants and as complementary forces labor as one to prevent any petty misunderstandings that might unintentionally endanger this necessary peace."   

        The Queen observed him coolly before she stood, tapping her glass gently to call the assemblage to attention. After a brief, roseate speech she dismissed all those but the principle players; her wisest advisors, the first among her ladies, the English Ambassador, George's own delegation. The party, like a gypsy caravan, moved forth with restless energy. Noise and laughter left the dining hall, following with the rowdy courtiers as they sought out the light and spectacle waiting for them in the outer rooms.

        When the last clack of ivory heels against marble faded Anne gestured airily with her fingers to summon D'artagnan to her side.

        While George would have preferred that she simply acquiesce to his prettily worded proposition he knew her too well not to suppose that she might attempt to outmaneuver him. A smile drifted lazily across his lips like smoke over water.

        Well… She was more than welcome to try.

        D'artagnan snapped his heels smartly and bowed low before his sovereign.

         _Dear_...

        It really was no fault of his own that his eyes traced down the slope of that proud back to the tempting curve of the mate's perfect ass sheathed in supple twilight blue.

        ... _God_!

        When they returned to England he would have the softest leathers made for his lover that would last only a few minutes each; the sole purpose would be the gratification George would have in tearing them off him. He would gladly spend his fortune to the last pence on such pleasurable pursuits!

        At the Queen's nod D'artagnan rose up and stood at complaisant attention.

        "The Duke has just expressed to me his wish that you parlay with the head of his Guard. They hope to avoid any unfortunate social faux pas" George appreciated the note of satire in her tone "and to integrate with Our household as smoothly as possible. We wish to prevent any inconvenience or unintentional insult, in either direction, due to cultural misunderstandings. Your recommendations?"

        The table watched the young Gascon carefully consider the Queen's words. As he did he tilted his head at a gentle angle, fluttered his long lashes, and in the high relief of a hundred candles the silk of his skin and the tawny color of his hair were on subtle display.

        If George didn't know any better he might think that... His glittering eyes dilated from brown to black from one blink to another. They narrowed and flickered rapidly from D'artagnan to Anne and back again.

        Her sly satisfaction...

        His imprecise discomfort...

        It was all becoming stomach-churningly clear.

        George found himself rolling his lips to suppress a snarl. His joints locked and his fingernails gouged deep lines into the painted arms of his chair. Arousal fizzled out beneath the tidal waves of rage that swept through him.

        This 'Queen'... This harlot on a high throne! She supposed she might insert herself into matters beyond politics and trade on something far more rarified than her petty intrigues! That she would compel his mate to try his novice hand at seduction (as if such a thing were even necessary between them and that the mad desire was not there already). His mate was obviously still chaste and George would not for a moment believe that such an innocent had concocted this foolish idea to display himself! Anne was risking much on the hope that perhaps D'artagnan's beauty might addle his thoughts or weaken his resolve. No doubt the bitch manipulated her most loyal Musketeer's marrow-deep sense of honor to the crown and his duty to his people. It sickened him.

        Reclined as he was with his hand casually shielding the lower half of his face George fought hard against his absolute fury. His nostrils flared and his blood roared in his ears.

        His mate's body was not a bargaining tool and his virtue would not to be bartered for peace! On his word and before God it would happen over his dead and rotting corpse!

        George had labored too damn long and suffered too damn much in this world to conscion such blatant debasement of the only pure thing left for him. He'd given all of himself so that when his mate at last found his way to him he could provide a life free from such deprivations and exploitation. Had it been his preference George would never have bedded anyone before the comely creature he would soon call his husband but the world was not kind. In the past, the choice regarding intimate companionship had not always been his to make. Refusing to be ashamed of the manner of his rise he instead self-dictated that he would never willingly take a lover who did not advance him in this life. All he did would be done for the benefit of his future mate. No matter the costs D'artagnan would be spared.

        Intellectually he knew he should have expected this of Anne (she never had been one to miss a trick) but his soul would have none of it. Not about this.    

        "I have the great honor of protecting Your Majesty," D'artagnan began, wrenching George violently from his thoughts. He straightened in his chair and forced his court mask back into place until he was able to smirk convincingly while wishing to disembowel, well, damn near everyone.

        "But," the young Musketeer continued, "as I am not the head of your household security nor the officer assigned to the greater security of the palace, I could not presume to treat on the behalf of those more senior than I. However if my Queen would hear my humble opinion, I would promote my compatriot, Aramis, on behalf of Captain Treville of the Musketeers, to see to this matter. He has long served Your Majesties and his knowledge and virtues are many. I..." his tongue darted out to wet his lips as he tucked his chin modestly. It was almost enough to distract George from the words he said next: "greatly admire him and hope one day to be half as keen and swift with a blade as he."

        First Athos, with his smug face and acerbic tongue, and now Aramis, that Jesuit bastard, with his philandering nature and salacious reputation! Would even the blockheaded Porthos be a threat to him?! Saints forefend either one of them reciprocating!

        "Yes, indeed." He struggled mightily to keep the exasperation from his face. "However, I think you do yourself a disservice! Tales of your bravery have traveled even to our fair white cliffs! The noble-hearted and fair D'artagnan who fights for King, country, and the honor of all! You should not speak so dismissively of your..." George leaned forward and allowed his gaze to linger with a casual sort of intrusiveness on D'artagnan's slender body; conveying amorous sonnets with his eyes and dirty limericks with a quirk of his lips. "...Talents."

        The way D'artagnan's eyes flared wider made George reconsider if war would really be so very inconvenient if it allowed him to surge forward and pull that lush, pouting lower lip into his mouth.

        Then again his mate's staunch and principled heart would assuredly baulk and countervail him if he so much as threatened his homeland. Perhaps if he promised to spare Gascony...

        The little minx bit that same glossy lip between his perfect white teeth and George had to curl his toes in his boots to hold himself back. The wild vacillation of his emotions, from cool and strategic to painfully aroused to splenetic and wrathful back to painfully aroused, was eroding his patience and sanity with each sudden swing of his mood.

        "Your Grace is very kind but my abilities are not unique amongst my brethren. As a Musketeer my life belongs to France."

         "And mine to England. We may serve differently, you and I, but a life of service requires an exceptional devotion and in that, I think, we are the same. You are a hero, young D'artagnan! Who better to assist my personal Guard? They value the Queen's safety as dearly as my own and could perhaps be of aid to you in return? I'm certain that this 'Aramis' is a fine fellow however I confess that your assistance would ease my mind and reassure our delegation that France is taking every measure to ensure our protection while we're here to treat for peace.

        "Besides," he bared his teeth in a wolfish leer. "One does always feel more secure when there are familiar faces about, don't you find?"

        D'artagnan's cheeks filled with sweet blood and George wondered idly how far down that blush went...

        "You're quite right, Your Grace! I could not agree more."

        Ah, yes, she was still there. They all were.

George found it deceptively easily to ignore the Powerful and the Good around him when his mate was so close. Refocusing his attention on his table companions he noticed that the palpable tension was more apparent and radiated forth from the Queen like the scorching rays from the summer sun.

        "D'artagnan is one of France's most beloved sons. His talent and fame are quite beyond his years. To put your mind at rest and to reassure your countrymen," her smile was stiff and doll-like as she spoke pointedly to the English coterie. "I see no reason why D'artagnan should not accompany Aramis as, after all, are two Musketeers not better than one?"

        The French all applauded their Queen and with a discreet nod from him the English clapped along as well.

       More wine was poured and George saluted Anne with his glass (her parry, while annoying, was a point for her) and D'artagnan resumed his place beside Athos, his eyes industriously reviewing the exits and looking anywhere but at him.

        Hours turned over, one into another, and the evening grew older. Time and training allowed George to center himself and reorganize his disorganized thoughts.

         Instead he focused on details. The music, for instance. It was nice enough but so very... French. He should have brought Robert Johnson along with him from court. The man was a wonder on the lute and his compositions for a number of festivals and plays had already marked him as rising star. He could have shown the limp-wristed harpsichordist in the corner a thing or two!

Nibbling on a small cake, he chuckled delightedly as the Earl of Norwich, England's current ambassador to France, upped the ante by sweetening the pot with a small purse of gold. George clapped his hands and with a flourish of his wrist tossed a matching number of coins onto the table. The rest of the players made various noises of playful annoyance or feisty instigation. Their audience, discretely elbowing each other out of the way for a better view, clapped and laughed along with him.

        At his gesture a male servant with a rather severe-looking mouth and watery green eyes presented a silver tray draped in snow white lace. From the tray George selected three more petite cakes decorated with rich icing shaped to look like tiny stars, miniature moons, and puffy, candied clouds. More tart wine was poured into the glass at his elbow.

        After the business about D'artagnan and Athos (sneak-thieving bastard!) they had all moved on to the outer rooms to rejoin the party. They'd listened to an oration in Greek and played several hands of cards before George had felt confident enough in his self-control to spare a glance for his mate.

         _Lovely_ . _Exquisite_ . _Strong_ . _Faithful_.

        He returned his gaze to the table as another bet was made and one of the Queen's advisors, Charles I de Blanchefort, Marquis de Créquy. George admired him his as a soldier but he was held in high regard by Anne and that made him dangerous.

        He tested his mettle every so often by casting his gaze indifferently about the room. He allowed only the slightest hesitation over the face of his beloved before moving on. It was during one such casual passing however that he noticed how unnecessarily close Athos was to George's mate. He was leant in and down, whispering in his ear with a clumsy, claw-like hand gripping his shoulder.

        The door in his mind, behind which he'd locked all of his rage and jealousy, rattled ominously. His lips ticked upward in a derisive sneer, quickly grabbing up his glass to hid the twist of his mouth.

        The old man clung like a lecherous dragon to D'artagnan as if the golden-haired Musketeer were the prized treasure in his hoard! Let Athos be the dragon to his St. George. Like his namesake he would strike him dead with all the righteous fury of the angels!

        His control was frayed at best and nearly broken when the Queen touched his arm as she held out the deck, indicating it was his turn to shuffle. He accepted the cards with a roguish wink and proceeded to toss the cards back and forth between his hands in a complicated exhibition of skill and sleight of hand. The table clapped and chortled as he passed out a round of cards to the circle of players. He played the next two hands with levity and a dry, cheeky wit, wishing to end the evening by dazzling the court.

        The merriment was reaching its natural conclusion as the courtiers began to wilt in their silks, hiding yawns behind ornate fans and ruffs of lace. Praise be that D'artagnan had moved on from that cad Athos and was now speaking quietly to another young Musketeer.

The Queen seemed to be readying herself to announce an end to the night’s festivities so George generously distributed his winnings to the other members of his retinue and to a few of the French nobles nearest him. He had no need for it and it never hurt to encourage goodwill on his own behalf.

All told it he considered that it had been a successful evening until _it_ happened. Christopher, his dear little brother, that he loved and wish to throttle in equal measure, did the one thing that came so naturally to him but that every young courtier is trained out of and told not to do: be clumsy. The lady was the same that had sat with the Queen during their private talks, so she was First among her Ladies. If that was not bad enough his idiot brother pulled out his handkerchief, extended the lady’s arm without permission, and started PATTING at the stain.

A more aware man might have dropped his head in shame and wept for his future but George knew Christopher really had no idea how badly he’d overstepped. George looked  beseechingly up to God for a second time that night and prayed a hole open up and swallow his brother. It would be a mercy.

        As this disaster continued to play on, out of the corner of his eye he saw D'artagnan step forward with a most peculiar look on his lovely face. Did he mean to intervene on the Lady’s behalf? He didn’t look concerned so much as inquisitive. Was this...? Ah. It was. George had heard about the beautiful Lady Constance de Bonacieux and the part she'd played in the debacle that had been the Cardinal's foiled plot. His sources in the palace said that the Lady was a close confidant of both his love and the Queen. There were mild insinuations that perhaps the she and D'artagnan were sweethearts but most recognized that the Lady had greater courtly ambitions than D'artagnan, as a penniless Musketeer, could afford her. If anything had come of their involvement but a tumble in the hay then the rumor mill hadn't heard of it and, given how shy his sweet stallion seemed, George doubted greatly he'd gotten beneath the Lady's skirts. Still, their acquaintance would bear watching.  

As the awkward moment stretched on and his brother, so obviously contrite, daubed helplessly at her sleeve, George nearly took it upon himself to try and rectify his brother's floundering. However as he pushed back his chair he saw D'artagnan signal his men who were at attention and ready to spring to stand them down, and the Queen herself rose from her seat.  

        Lady Constance withdrew with the Queen after a formal valediction. The other Ladies-In-Waiting surrounded her, forming a loose ring that acted as a buffer between her and the rest of the party. Christopher had such a devastated look on his face that George felt a measure of fraternal grief for him. This was his first foray into a foreign court and his first opportunity to prove himself worthy of the prestigious post George had secured for him back home. He would assure him later that tomorrow was a new day and that mistakes were how one learned what _not_ to do.

        As the party fell into procession according to rank and birth it so happened that D'artagnan was near enough to him (by virtue of having to be near the Queen to protect her) that he saw an unlooked for but much appreciated opportunity. Perhaps Christopher's blunder could be turned to serve him.

        "I do hope that my brother hasn't offended the young lady too badly. He is the most loyal of men but his grace has never been particularly remarked upon."    

        D'artagnan's laugh was bright and warm. "As you say, Lord Buckingham. I know the Lady Constance well and she is as sweet-natured as she is perceptive. I'm certain she will take no offense. Accidents are by definition unintentional and his remorse was plain to see."

         "You are just as sweet-natured as I imagined you to be, my dear." George leaned closer, letting his voice deepen into a purr. "Tell me, D'artagnan. On lonely nights and in quiet moments have you thought of me and wondered what I might be like?"

        "I-" How sweet was it to see his beloved's breath quicken. George fancied he might be able to hear his wild heart beating hard and fast in his chest if he but drew just a bit nearer. "Well, I-"

        "I have commissioned a coronet for you from the Royal Jewelers in London. Pearls and sapphires set in silver. I will have you honored by my side and answerable to no one but the King Himself."

        They stared deeply into each other's eyes from the side as their feet guided them along with the rest of the procession. D'artagnan, willful sprite that he is, tried to smooth his expressive face. "I've wondered if you would be kind. If you would be to me the most loyal of men."

        It cut George to the quick. If only D'artagnan knew how long and patiently he'd waited for him. "And? Have you your answer yet?"

        "How could I?" D'artagnan shook his head, the pearlescence of his shirt shifting colors in the light. "You are as much a mystery to me now as you have ever been."

        George chuckled.

        "Ah, I shall endeavor to prove myself then for I have not come all this way, crossed land and sea, only to be dissuaded by my own ambiguity."

        The procession was about the part ways; the English to the quarters arranged for them in a secure wing of the palace and the French to their own safe beds.

        "Sweet dreams, little one," he whispered. "Until tomorrow."

        It was a risk but he could not stop his hand from reaching out and ever so gently, as if his mate were made of spun sugar or stained glass, to caress his hand. It was a moment in time, barely the blink of an eye, but George would gladly live in it for the rest of his life.

        He turned on his heel and followed the footman waiting patiently to guide him to his rooms. If he hesitated he would never leave.

        He had gone no more than five steps when he noticed (but haughtily ignored) Athos glaring hatefully at him from the shadows. Let the scaly beast snort and huff and glower. He'd seen and spoken to an angel this night. He would see him every time he closed his eyes.

_______________________________

        The fire had burned itself down and George was about the retire when he heard a creak outside his door. He moved quickly, crossing the room and yanking it open in an attempt to surprise whoever it was. His pistol was instantly to hand and pressed bruisingly hard under the jaw of the intruder. When he saw who it was he rolled his eyes and lowered the barrel.

        "Christopher," he growled, pulling the man roughly into his rooms by his upper arm. "What are you doi-"

        "I've found it! I mean her! I've found her! My soulmate!" he shouted as he stumbled further into the room, tripping over his own feet in his excitement. He windmilled his arms and tipped, knocking over a side table which thankfully held nothing breakable. The harsh landing did nothing to dampen his brother’s elation. He grinned up at him like all was right with his world. “It’s really happened, George! I’ve found her!”  

George stared at his brother for a full minute before collapsing back into his chair. This was…

Wonderful. Inconvenient. Fantastic. Problematic.

And just like his brother.

"Tell me everything."

  
  



	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How could I forget to acknowledge my co-writer??? Many thanks to ConstantineMK for helping making this chapter comedy gold.

D'artagnan rubbed at the back of his neck, kicking at a rock with his boot. "Awww, come on... Don't stare at me like that! I said I was sorry!"

          Silence. A slow, accusatory blink.

          D'artagnan huffed and crossed his arms defensively.

          "You have no idea the sort of pressure I'm under right now! The least you could do is cut me some slack!"

          Silence. A snarky eye roll.

          "Now that was just uncalled for."

          A derisive snort.

          "You're being rude and I don't appreciate it."

          "......."

          D'artagnan began to fidget as the silence stretched uncomfortably between them. At last he sighed and dropped his head in surrender.

          Damn it, he always broke first!

          "I know I haven't been around much but I told you, I met my soul mate and that situation is... difficult. Our match is a tangled, knotted mess of politics and- and the Queen is counting on me, all of France is counting on me, but without you..."

          He rested his nose against hers, staring soulfully into her eyes. "You know you're my best girl, right?"

          With a gentle hand he reached out and tucked a bit of glossy gray mane away from her eyes as he dropped a doting kiss on her nose. "You are the mistress of my heart, the Empress of all you survey, and I'm just your lowly human servant here to do your biding."

          D'artagnan bit his lip and held his breath.

         Buttercup stared imperiously down at her penitent-seeming human for another long, deliberate moment before she tossed her head and neighed, indicating her forgiveness. She nudged at his shoulder affectionately, lips nipping at the pockets of his cloak for an apology treat. D'artagnan laughed and dutifully retrieved a sweet apple and held it out for her.

          "I really am sorry, Buttercup. If hostilities relax to the point that he and I can speak to each other properly, alone and in confidence, and if that goes well, I can bring him to pay his respects." Skeptical black eyes rolled as she snorted, nosing against his pockets again for another apple. D'artagnan already had one ready for her. "Unfortunately I think you two would get along far too well. I can just see the pair of you plotting against me!"

 

          In the twilight chill of the early morning D'artagnan basked in the last hour of quiet before the first of the city were expected to rise. His spirit, as they say, was more willing than his flesh, and too much in favor of foregoing the rest he sorely needed. He'd tossed and turned for a few hours of troubled sleep before he'd surrendered himself to restlessness and rose for the day.

          "He is handsome though, Buttercup. You should see him," D'artagnan murmured, almost to himself. He hid his dreamy smile in the softness of her mane. "He holds himself like a king but he moves like a courtier, talks like a politician, and adapts himself like a soldier. I've never seen another like him and I don't think I ever will again. And... and he's mine." His smile dimpled and his cheeks pinked.

          "I'm almost scared to imagine that he could be mine. Since all was revealed I haven't had a moment to stop and listen to my own heart. That was how mother said I'd know when I found the one. In the recent chaos I can hardly hear a thing over the orders and demands of others. For my sovereigns, for my country, I'm being asked to manipulate the man who is my mate and encourage his ruination using the very bond itself. I know my duty but I can't help thinking that in abiding by my oath of service I'll be perverting the promise of a higher calling." 

          Buttercup listened patiently while her human poured out his heart but at the catch in his voice she decided it was high time she settled his nonsense. She nudged his shoulder again, harder this time, knocking him back a step. As he flailed she bumped his chin up gently with her nose, snorting emphatically. Stamping her hoof demandingly she clacked her teeth at his creased and much-worn leather jerkin.

          D'artagnan chuckled and stepped back, rubbing at the tender spot over his heart where she'd nipped him. His amusement faded as his hand pressed closer to his heart as if trying to sooth away a deeper ache. His blue-gray eyes grew distant and meditative.

          Dusty, pale orange light was just beginning to limn the far horizon but Buttercup had already had quite enough of his woolgathering. She neighed and swung her head impatiently bringing D'artagnan back to himself with a similar shake of his own head.

          She neighed at him again, loudly, looking cross.

          He ducked away as if she'd chastised him. "Yes, ma'am," he murmured obediently.

          Buttercup, as usual, was absolutely right. He should get his head out of the future with all of its could-be's and focus on the present with its I-will's; he needed to keep himself firmly grounded, keep his head up, and listen to his heart.

          Simple.

          Leave it to his Lady Mistress to boil down his angst and doubt and make him feel like a silly human to boot.

          This was why she was his favorite!

           Swinging his saddlebag across her rump D'artagnan shook the dew off his boots (it was only polite) and hauled himself up to be seated. He patted her neck in thanks and to let her know that he was ready to ride.

          D'artagnan pulled up his hood and whistled away his anxiety as Buttercup took them to visit his brothers.

          As luxurious, well-appointed, and dream-like as the palace was, for his money D'artagnan thought there was no place so wonderful as home!

          ....though, if he were being honest, in the summer the Seine gave off a God-awful smell that blew right in through the windows since they were all thrown open to encourage any puff of air in to circulate within. Naturally that also welcomed in the flies and other pests that wanted to hover closer to their sweat-soaked skin, buzzing incessantly.

          His home away from home, actually! An island oasis compared with the filth and noise and congestion of Paris

          ....except the time filth had followed Porthos inside as the previous night he'd fallen into bed with a woman his ale had told him was a great beauty but the morning revealed was actually a loony. She'd cackled and rubbed her dirty gray skin and greasy hair all over him so that when he came home he gave them all lice. Aramis, so proud of his handsome dark hair, had been told he'd need to sheer most of it to be rid of the buggers and he'd nearly taken not only Porthos's hair but his whole head.

          But home is where the heart is!

          ....and also mice. Their home was also home to a family of very opportunistic mice. Oh, and there was that leak in the upstairs hall that had taken them an age to fix. Come to think on it, the drafts in the winter time were nasty as well and had nearly frozen his toes off when his feet had come uncovered during the night.

          Alright so their home wasn't grand, or clean, or really even structurally sound but D'artagnan loved it anyway!

          It was filled with memories; the table where he, Athos, Porthos, and Aramis gathered to eat, drink, laugh, and to celebrate. The adjacent fireplace where they relaxed in the evening, basking in its warmth and huddled around its light. The front room where they relaxed and argued and shared stories. The crooked stairs they'd each fallen down a dozen times at least (pathetically not the most embarrassing of their tumbles had to do with liquor either). The bedrooms, each as familiar to D'artagnan as his own. When screams from bloody nightmares would shake the household awake they would all wordlessly come together in support. When loss and defeat struck at their hearts too hard they would all wait out the night as a family.  

          He'd spent some of the best days and nights of his young life in the rundown house by the river where tears went unmentioned but never untended and laughter was the likeliest sound of all to hear. 

          So it was, with a feeling of contentment (if not aesthetic pleasure), that D'artagnan and Buttercup passed through the familiar archway and spied home.

 _______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

          When he'd settled his Lady with fresh oats and clean straw, he fitted the key into the front door and entered as quietly as he could (the trick was to lift as you pushed inward to prevent the shrill squeak of the rusty hinges).

          "Once it was raining and pouring, when a young man decided to go whor-" D'artagnan bit his lip, choking on a snort as he hung his cloak by the door. He crept through the main room and gingerly peaked around the kitchen doorway. Planchet was humming to himself and dancing from one foot to another, wiggling his bottom as he gathered the fixings for a light breakfast. "-he was down on his luck but still wanted to fu-"

          "Good morning!" D'artagnan called out, slamming so suddenly and loudly into the room that poor Planchet shrieked and flung the jam-slathered roll he'd been holding straight up at the ceiling where it stuck fast.

          "Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! Oh merciful heaven!" he grabbed at his heart and staggered into the closest chair looking winded. "Why?" he begged D'artagnan, "Why do you do this to me?"

          D'artagnan laughed and loped over to his friend, pulling him into a tight hug. "Because I missed you, Planchet! Are the others up yet?"

          "No. No they are not but-"

          A growling, board-rattling thump came from upstairs. Planchet winced.

          "-I'm sure they'll be down shortly, sir."

          D'artagnan set about gathering up a warm loaf, several plates, a large slice of cheese, some fruit, and a knife and started for the dining room. "Why don't you grab the wine, some salted meat, honey, and the jam. They'll be less beastly if there's food waiting."

          As he passed the young Musketeer bumped his friend's shoulder playfully with his hip. "Ready to start the day? It can only get better from here!"

          Planchet grumbled sulkily as he returned to his work table. Just as he was about to turn and follow D'artagnan the roll came unstuck from the ceiling with an unsavory sucking noise.

          Confused Planchet looked up as the roll was tumbling down.

          It landed squarely on his forehead with a SPLAT.

          Too appalled and stricken to do anything more than stand there dumbly with strawberry jam and a roll stuck to him, Planchet bit his lip and bowed his resignedly.

          Well... at least jam was better than bird droppings in his eye.

          Perhaps the day was looking up for him.

           

          A warm hand on his shoulder had D'artagnan turning suddenly into an embrace. "Why didn't you say you were coming home this morning?" Aramis asked into his hair before releasing him. "I would have rolled the old logs out of bed earlier to greet you!"

          D'artagnan smiled and passed his friend a slice of bread and a ripe bunch of juicy grapes. "How many bottles did it take to fell them last night?"

          "Athos returned late and in a fine temper. You know the sort." D'artagnan nodded, gesturing for Aramis to sit as he divided the cheese. "Porthos was well on his way to oblivion by that time but Athos was quick to catch him up. This morning won't be kind for either of them I'm afraid."

          "They deserve it," the young man tutted with a disappointed shake of his head. "We're on a mission. They could be called to arms at any time."

          "It would serve them right." Aramis tossed a grab into his mouth. "How did the banqu-"

          Stomp. Groan. Stomp. Whine. Stomp. Whimper.

          Both men turned toward the stairs and waited with solemn expressions, trying their damndest not to smirk.

          "Arrrg... Why is the sun up!" Porthos snarled only to grab at his head and hunch his shoulders as he waited for the sick throbbing to slow.

          "Better question is why are you in my way!" Athos pushed past him and marched over to the table, looking around at the spread of food with disgust. When D'artagnan placed his plate, loaded with the meats and fruit he normally took in the morning, down in front of him his cheeks went slightly green. Porthos meanwhile collapsed into a chair, head down and pillowed in his arms.

          He and Aramis exchanged a surreptitious look over their heads.

          Just then Planchet swept into the room, arms full and chattering away. "Good morning, sirs! I've got your wine right here, don't you worry! I also have some of that jam you like so much Athos even if you like to pretend you don't, I know you do! It's the same as how you treat me but I know that deep down all of you really do li-"

          "SHUT UP, PLANCHET!" The two hung-over men bellowed only to cringe in unison and begin rubbing at their temples.

          Planchet sputtered, cradling the jam jar tight to his chest like it was a baby and he the offended mother. There was still a stick red splotch on his brow and in his hair.

            Aramis's lips twitched.

          D'artagnan tried to breathe through his nose but ended up snorting.

          They held it in for nearly thirty seconds before they both burst out in ruckus laughter, grabbing their sides helplessly.

           Affronted, Planchet squared his shoulders and primly placed the jam jar by the bread loaf before sticking his nose in the air and stomping back into the kitchen.  

          This only made Aramis and D'artagnan laugh harder.

          Athos and Porthos cussed at them from between their clenched teeth.

          It was a while before they all settled enough to eat and wake up properly. Aramis took pity on the two miserable men and went to make them a tea that he often used to alleviate the symptoms of their overindulgence. It was a secret recipe Aramis had picked up during his years in the priesthood. Monks always made the best wine and there was usually something a bit stronger laying about if you knew who to ask.

          Soon everyone was feeling a bit more human.

          "Proverbs 18:24 reads 'One who has unreliable friends soon comes to ruin, but there is a friend who sticks closer than a brother. Blessed be the name of the Lord'." Aramis stared over the rims of his glasses, looking pointedly between Athos and Porthos.

          Athos ignored him, sipping at his second cup of what the monks had wittily called 'Pie-tea". 

          "Yes, Aramis, we get it! You are the best friend simple men like us could hope to have and we would be sorely lost without you! Now, please, for the love of God," Porthos groaned, holding out his mug "may I have another?"

          D'artagnan snickered, thinking back to the time he'd spent earlier that morning cajoling Buttercup. Now that he thought about it, Aramis and Buttercup did share many of the same personality traits: loyal to a fault, handy in a fight, protective of family, alarmingly perceptive, full of sass, and, most defining of all, they were both smug know-it-alls who were too often right!

          As Aramis handed Porthos a full mug D'artagnan snatched the slice of bread off the bigger man's plate, savoring the sweet taste of the honey he'd spread on it. Turning back to his plate Porthos frowned, looked about, and then glared at their youngest who grinned back unrepentantly with a smudge of honey on his lower lip.

          Athos, ever the mother hen, threw a napkin at his face.

          "How did it go last night? Athos shared only a little last night."

          "As well as we could have expected, I suppose." D'artagnan shrugged. "Certainly nothing physically threatening. Like all ranking members of court they strike their blows with words not fists."  

          "Typical," Porthos grunted, preparing himself another slice of bread. "The nobility can never say what they mean or mean what they say. Ask Athos!"

          Aramis rolled his eyes at the man's lack of tact and threw a berry at him, hitting him on the nose. Athos followed up with a hard bit of crust.

           D'artagnan nibbled on a bit of apple, smiling distractedly as Porthos threw them back. "Buckingham made his first move. He requested-"

          Athos cut him off. "He backed the Queen into agreeing that D'artagnan and Aramis should counsel the head of his personal Guard on the best unified strategy for protecting the Queen and the Duke together. Some pretentiously worded dribble about avoiding confrontations between our guard and theirs."

          Aramis frowned. "Truly? And the Queen acceded?"

          D'artagnan nodded, scowling at Athos's derisive sniff. "Yes, she did. The meeting will be later today in fact. The arrangements must have been made by the Queen or one of her aides late last night because the details were waiting for me when I rose this morning. Per the parlay agreement a small detachment of the Duke's personal guard, including his Captain of the Guard, will be departing their air ship and meeting first with the Buckingham and his advisors, and then with Aramis and I. We will be meeting with the Captain by no later than 2pm."

          "All under Buckingham's watchful eye, I'm sure," Athos said scathingly.

          Porthos leaned forward, waving a bit of salted pork. "He will be alone amongst them?"

          "Not alone," Athos corrected. "Aramis will be the pup's chaperone!"   

          "I don't like it!"

          "No one does, Porthos!"

          "Then fix it! You can't allow this to happen!"

          "It's not my plan, you pr-"

          D'artagnan slammed his mug down, silencing the table.

          "The Queen's message told me when and where to arrive and so I shall. We all would like this situation to be different but as Musketeers we go where we're ordered, not where we best like. Aramis, are you with me?"

          "Of course I am, D'artagnan. Were you not listening earlier? 'One who has unreliable friends soon comes to ruin, but there is a friend who sticks closer than a brother'."

          The Gascon's eyes shown bluer for the warmth in them.

          "I do wonder how I was chosen for this assignment however. You were of course the target of the Duke's machinations but I can't fathom why he would include me."

          D'artagnan had the good grace to appear sheepish. "It was I who promoted you. The Queen asked who among our number should take on this duty and, of our brethren, I spoke your name and numbered your virtues and long service to the crown. I may have gone about it in a certain way..." trying to demonstrate, D'artagnan made sure he had his friend's singular attention as he licked his lips and bowed his head demurely as he'd done the night before in front of the Duke. His voice was a bit breathier as he said, "I greatly admire you and hope one day to be half as keen and swift with a blade as you." His lashes fluttered and the meat of his wet lower lip caught between his teeth.

          You could have heard a pin drop.

          Aramis stared at D'artagnan, utterly gobsmacked, as if he'd never seen him before. After a few moments of blinking owlishly at their youngest, Aramis stood up and leaned his arms against the table, his entire body angled forward toward D'artagnan. His tall, lean body and tight muscles on perfect display. A licentious, predatory grin flirted across his lips.

          Athos put aside his tea and poured himself a full cup of wine, looking like he was trying to pretend that none of this was happening.

          "If I'd only known you admired my skills that much I'd have taken more time to show you how to handle a blade properly. Especially how and where best to sheath it." Aramis winked and smirked as a growing flush spread across D'artagnan's cheeks. "It would be a shame if you only learned the English way of things. Before you resign yourself to their repressed, uncultured style you may want to practice the traditions we French are famous for!"

          Porthos laughed bawdily, slapping the table.

          "If you are committed to this way of snaring the Duke there is no better teacher than Aramis! That man could seduce a stone! Why do you think there are so many standing stones across the countryside, eh? Because Aramis whispered sweet nothings to them and even they rose to the occasion!"

          D'artagnan hid his face in his hands to hide his blazing cheeks.

          Aramis sat back down and kicked his feet up. "You are adorable and nothing goads a man's deepest lusts like the thought of innocence untouched but you have much to learn if you think to use your wiles to master a man like Buckingham." 

          "I won't be alone in my embarrassment soon," D'artagnan grumbled.

          Athos tipped his chair back, balancing it on two legs. "Come again?"

          "Constance met her soulmate last night-"

          "Good for her!" Porthos cheered, absently flipped the bread knife end over end. "She's a fine woman. I hope it was someone with half a spine or she'll just unhinge her jaw and swallow them whole!"

          "Her mate is the Duke's brother, Christopher, 1st Earl of Anglesey."

          The knife Porthos had been playing with went sideways and landed in Athos's cup. The former noble looked at his friend with extreme displeasure through a face dripping with wine.

          Aramis covered his laugh with a cough as he handed over a dry rag.

          "The clumsy one?" Athos inquired from behind rag as he rubbed down his chin and nose.

           "Yes, the one that spilled his wine on her sleeve."

          "Does anyone else know?"

          "Constance went to tell the Queen this morning. I would wager that the Earl told his brother. No one else."

          "Oh, this is too rich!" Porthos chortled. "The littlest Musketeer in a star-crossed affair with the rich, evil Duke and the daring, ambitious Lady-In-Waiting finding her match in an oafish Gentleman of the Bedchamber. This is gonna be great." 

          D'artagnan's fists clenched and he began to turn red for a different reason. "I'm so glad we could entertain you, you son of a-"

          Aramis clapped his hands. "Enough court intrigue for now!"

          Planchet poke his head into the room. "Are you done with that jam yet? My roll this morning seemed to just fly away."

          D'artagnan dropped his head against his palm.


	20. Chapter. 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Updated for the FREAKING last time

Just after seven in the morning Richelieu had risen to the music of a cherub-cheeked choirboy in his dove-white surplice, singing hymns sweetly enough to stir the angels. Mornings had never enticed him enough on their own and so he'd bid the boy sing progressively louder until his lazy bones had no other recourse but to shake off the comely whispers of sleep. It was with a grumble, a snort, and a few words that should have set his tongue alight with hellfire, that he finally roused himself from the sheets.

After dismissing the child with a coin and a blessing Richelieu had suffered to be washed and dressed by his valet. Théo, the youngest bastard of the Duc d'Arpajon, then brought him cold soup and a glass of wine for breakfast, along with his schedule for the day. 

"You can always tell the Dutch," Richelieu reflected as he affixed his signature to a most troublesome Austrian trade agreement (the negotiations for which had only recently been concluded) with a flourish. Théo removed the agreement and replaced it with a request for promotion from one of the officers of the Cardinal's personal guard.

"Is that so, my lord Cardinal?"

Richelieu nodded sagely, rewetting the nub of his quill in the crystal inkwell before signing again. It too was swept away and in its place was a letter to the Spanish ambassador written by one of the Cardinal's many secretaries. It had already taken most of the morning but when, in due course, all of the Cardinal's administrative business had been endorsed, his great seal of office would be imprinted in sweet smelling wax and the documents sent by private, armed courier to their respective recipients. 

"Just so, my boy," the Cardinal continued. "The Dutch have the scent of prey about them. It makes them instantly recognizable. The Spanish, of course, stink of the moral corruption of the East. The English of mud and vermin and boiled meats. I tell you, the art of diplomacy isn't so much a studied craft or genteel talent as it is the ability to hold ones churning stomach in check while shaking hands with all of those foul vapors in the same room!"

Richelieu smirked to hear his valet's inelegant snort.

"They say we French hold our noses in the air and they are quite right. However, what they call haughtiness is in fact our attempt at putting our poor noses farthest from their odors!"

Théo chortled this time, smoothly exchanging a signed document for an order from the Cardinal's household for more wine from Savoy. 

As he reviewed the lists Richelieu considered the young man standing attentively at his elbow who had, by degrees, swiftly risen through the ranks of his personal staff. Handsome, clever, accomplished, and desperate for advancement, Théo had few qualms about leaving his boot prints across the backs of those weaker or less ruthless than himself. The Cardinal had noted (with subtle approval) that more than one of Théo's potential rivals had succumbed to mysterious maladies, swift social deaths by malignant rumor, or were quietly blackmailed out of court. At the very least they were, to a man, firmly removed from Théo's way. With a bit of polish he could be a most useful tool.

The Cardinal turned in his seat and leaned casually upon the chair's padded arm rest. He stroked his beard as he stared thoughtfully upon his valet. Théo appeared unruffled by this scrutiny and instead maintained the poise and composure that was so rare in his contemporaries. Perhaps... yes, he might be just the sort of rough stone Richelieu needed to set the ripples of his plan fluttering across the water.

"Do you have a woman?" the Cardinal inquired at last, reaching out to close his inkwell with a chiming *clink* of the crystal lid.

A small frown appeared between his valet's green eyes and his mouth pursed questioningly. "No, my lord. I am unattached."

"Hmm, and what of the Beaubourg Quartier? I hear there are streets there that are favorites of certain vigorous gentleman. Or do you visit yourself upon the chambermaids below stairs at night? A virile young man such as yourself with a position at court must not want for company."

Théo opened his mouth and then closed it again. For the first time he appeared to be caught wrong-footed. "My lord, I must confess that I am unsure what you are asking of me."

Richelieu's right eyebrow lifted mockingly. "I am asking whether your cock works, boy, or if you walk about like a man but are really as useful as a eunuch! Is that clear enough for you?" 

Théo's square, angular jaw clenched and his spine stiffened. "I am more than capable of taking my pleasure, my lord Cardinal, and there are many of my partners who could testify of the same."

"With maids only or have you tumbled the lads as well?"

"I have no preference for one over the other. My only requisites are a healthy countenance and a certain beauty of form and face."

Richelieu mused on this, prolonging the uncomfortable silence between them. His eyes gazed vacantly into the distance over his valet's shoulder. When a quarter of a candle mark had passed suddenly he clapped his hands and rose abruptly from his seat, rubbing his palms together vigorously.

"Good! Wonderful!" He was about to expound but was cut off by a series of tentative raps at the door. 

Théo bowed to the Richelieu before excusing himself to answer them. A moment later he returned to regretfully explain that it had been a messenger from the King, summoning the Cardinal to his side.

Why was it, Richelieu mused, that at his moments of greatest industry and inspiration he must drop matters of the highest import to answer the summons of a vainglorious child who had not the audacity to dream of knowing the complex and sacred balance required of rulership? Why was he made to endure this earth-bound Purgatory where he remained enslaved to the whims of a petulant peacock? His every effort at raising himself and bringing low the arrogant, obnoxious blatherskite ran afoul each time, no matter the time, skill, or coin he dedicated to its success!

Stifling his irritation he sent Théo ahead to speak quickly and quietly with an aid to the King's valet (one of his best purchases among the King's personal staff) who disclosed that currently the King was much preoccupied with how he should appear at the fete this evening. He seemed determined to marshal all of his resources and bend them toward appearing more magnificent than anyone else. They all knew who the 'anyone else' was but no one dared utter the name after the monumental tantrum His Highness had thrown preceding the Duke's first state visit. 

Upon the announcement of his person, Richelieu swept into the room, calming sidestepping a downpour of rejected damask, a drizzle of gold platted buttons, and a sprinkling of silk sashes set with diamonds. The manic designers spoke over one another as they dashes between boxes, trunks, velvet bags, and footman bearing stacks of material so high you couldn't see their faces. In the center of the hurricane stood the King, draped in seven different colors that were each being replaced as quickly as the young monarch could cast them off.

A ripped sleeve fluttered to the Cardinal's feet like a fallen pennant. The upper portion of the garment piece bore a detailed embroidery of the King's Royal Standard. Richelieu stepped deliberately upon it, grinding it into the marble floor with the heel of his boot.

"Your Majesty," he spread his arms welcomingly and dipped a shallow bow. "How may I be of service?"

"Ah, yes! Cardinal! Thank goodness you are here! I am completely surrounded by idiots and have no one else to turn to!"

Louis stepped down from the cushioned pedestal where he'd been posing before a towering semi-circle of mirrors, shaking off swatches and samples as he pranced over to take his minister's arm.

"I plan to show a certain English dog that the last word in European style begins and ends with France! I have chosen this evening to display myself on behalf of our nation. I have every conceivable pattern of brocade that can be imported but I must have the right color. These buffoons said I should consider red! Can you imagine! Buckingh- I mean that horrible inbred island-dweller would not be caught dead in red! You are a man of intelligence and discernment, Cardinal. What color should I wear?"

Earlier this morning he'd been confirming treaties, trade agreements, imposing sanctions, approving troop movements, and writing diplomatic correspondences to Kings and Emperors. How far he'd fallen by the afternoon!

"I believe purple," he suggested in a cajoling tone he often used to sway the King to this position or that. "It being the color of royalty would suit Your Majesty well! Show this lordling the truth of your blood and that you have no need to use garishness or excess to announce your rank for you are first among men."

The King appeared deep in thought and his features puckered toward the middle of his face as if he were pondering the fate of nations rather than the color of his suit. It was enough to drive the Cardinal to maddening irritation bordering on despair. 

King Louise began to titter as he spun around and practically flew at his designers. "Royal purple! What an excellent choice! Do you hear that you silly lambs? I want a purple brocade with the gold fleur de lis on the lining but not beneath the slashing. What color for that, Cardinal?"

"Silver, Your Majesty."

How he longed to deliver one swift kick to the mirrors and send them toppling down atop the fretting milksop!

"Absolutely! You hear that, you louts! Must I do everything? Use this silver silk in beneath the slashing on the shoulders and at the wrists. Off with you! I expect it to be ready well before this evening!"

Like a gaggle of startled geese the designers began to flail and honk, hauling away great armfuls of material at a quickstep. It was no time at all before they had all scurried off and the King was wilting gracefully onto a chaise longue plumped up with soft pillows. 

Patting delicately at his cheeks Louis sighed as if run completely ragged. "Come and sit, dear Cardinal! Tell me what you've heard about the dinner later night. I would ask Anne but she must be so tired from dealing with that brute late into the night and then having to be ready for the play tonight. I must know everything!"

The Cardinal settled himself upon a narrow stool (the only seat not buried beneath mountains of textiles) and placed his hands upon his knees. It was frankly undignified but he could say nothing or breach the delicate etiquette of the court.

Steeling himself, Richelieu began to detail the Duke's arrival, building to a particularly choice bit of news.

"All was well between them until Buckingham presented to Her Majesty his greeting gift. I am told by the most reliable of sources that it was a diamond necklace in the likeness of the one you yourself gave to the Queen. That the resemblance between the two was unmistakable."

Louis slammed his hands fitfully against the pillows, batting some away. "He imitated the necklace I gave to my wife, the Queen, for our anniversary? After the recent rumors? The conceit of such a man! How does my cousin James favor him? The reports of his wit and political tact can hardly be credited when he comes to our court with such a bitter fruit to bear!"

"Indeed, Your Majesty." Richelieu commented dryly. "You are the best to judge these matters, of course. You should also know that he seemed to show no shame for it."

"His sort rarely do!" the King pouted, folding his arms like a temperamental child. "I regret that I was not there to trim the cheer from his braggadocio! Nevertheless I do hope my Anne put him in his place."

Richelieu sighed and shook his head. "The Queen accepted the gift before the court. She did not otherwise comment upon it."

The young Bourbon monarch did not seem best pleased by this but motioned that the Cardinal should continue.

"They dined according to court protocol and by all appearances the Queen and the Duke were congenial companions. One courtier did remark that a short-lived discussion about the Queen's love of horses led to some mild disagreement between herself and Buckingham, stemming from an insult levied at a particular breed of French stallion."

If only the King knew which breed!

"The nerve," the King grumbled, motioning for a servant to bring them wine. As they sipped Richelieu moved on.

"During the rest of the meal there were few variances of note save an apparent enmity between the Musketeer Athos and the Duke. This was observed by some as an exchange of dark glances."

This seemed to amuse the King... but of course it did. Richelieu was hardly surprised that the child's pride in his Musketeers should once again blind him to the importance of the broader picture. His narrowness of vision and rampant favoritism were galling.

"As the meal concluded the Queen dismissed all but her closest advisors and the Duke's retinue from the table. They discussed the possibility of a cooperative effort between his Guard and hers, ostensibly to provide a united front against the many plots afoot that could sabotage the accords. To that end, I have it on good authority that D'artagnan and Aramis will be meeting with the Duke's Captain today."

Louis levered himself up slowly, his pout darkening into a stormy frown. "I ordered D'artagnan to protect my Queen. What is he doing cavorting with the English?"

"It was at the Queen's command. Though I do wonder if such a young and impressionable boy as D'artagnan won't have his head turned by someone as..." the Cardinal shook his head regretfully, as if he lamented the very thought, "worldly and immoral as the Duke. The rumors of his exploits have certainly traversed the Channel."

The King's mood shifted into something resembling worry. Not quite the suspicion Richelieu had been hoping to induce but with time he was sure he could turn the King against his favorite Musketeer. It wouldn't take long if he-

"Your recounting of events was most appreciated, Cardinal." Louis rose from his seat and walked over to the side table arranged beneath a bank of sunlit windows.

Forcing his eyes to follow the King through the glaring golden beams, Richelieu watched him sort through a gathering of papers until he'd apparently found the one he wanted. He lifted it from the sheaf and read through it, his lips moving quietly as he did so. It was another few minutes during which the Cardinal thought of seven different ways to strangle the grandstanding infant for wasting his tim-

"Your report matches up quite nicely. Not as meticulous as I've come to expect from you, Cardinal, but accurate all the same." Louis smiled thinly at his minister, giving the paper in his hand a decisive flick with his other. "It does my heart good to know that I can be so sure of you, Richelieu." 

Richelieu stood (how his knees ached from the low seat of the stool!), his eyes narrowing and voice carefully controlled. "Your Majesty, while you may be always be assured of my devotion to you, I'm afraid that I am somewhat puzzled."

Louis's eyebrows fluttered up, close to his hairline and his lips ticked up in a small, cynical smile. "I had my own man at the Queen's side last night and he conveyed to me every word he was able to overhear, exactly as it was said. I am telling you that had your report not corresponded to his with reasonable certainty, that my heart would no longer be so warmly disposed toward you as it has been."

Louis finished off his glass of wine while his Cardinal floundered for a proper response from which he remembered a goal he had set before coming here.

“Of course, your majesty." he replied in a voice not as smooth as he would like. "While I have your attention may acquire your signature on a few documents.” A wave of his hand had one of his servants approaching with a small stack of documents crawled in his hand. “They are of a minor manor that just needs your approval.”

Normally the king would sign whatever he placed in front of him but today he turned towards the Cardinal with an attentive gaze. “A few matters of state, heh? I shall read them through and return them to you later today, Cardinal. In fact, I think I shall read them during my fitting!” 

The cardinal could feel a headache slowly approaching as he stared at the King’s proud expression. Why couldn’t the insolent boy just do as he was supposed to? “That would surely distract you from the designers that you have coming. Would it not be better to have me take care of this now and provide your full attention to your affairs this evening?” he questioned in the manner he always used that led the king to give in. For a minute the boy looked like he would give in but in the end he shook his head.

“Thank you Cardinal for the offer but I think I shall handle this. Things are going to start changing around here starting with me actually reading what I am signing. I heard Anne talking about paying more attention to State affairs and therefore I believe that there is a wonderful place to start! If you'll excuse me Cardinal, I have a fitting to attend!"

” The boy flounced over to the shocked servant, took the documents before flouncing out the room calling out a good-bye to the Cardinal. 

Richelieu returned to his rooms at a stately pace, neither hurried nor sluggish, with a pinched look that he tried vainly to mask beneath a stiff, brittle smile. He nodded to the gentry or ignored the servants respectively, hands folded elegantly over his middle.

In truth, his head ached fiercely and the pain of it soured his mood until it curdled altogether and he felt positively rancorous. He instructed Theo through gritted teeth to turn away all visitors and to hold all of his correspondences. He was not to be disturbed under any circumstances short of the Second Coming. He planned to withdraw to his private chapel for a period of “prayer and reflection, that the Lord may refresh my soul and renew my spirit”. The sardonic lift of the young man’s dark brow was brief but telling as he bowed lowly and took his leave to the outer rooms. There he would intercept the hoard of courtiers, petitioners, and government officials who daily bombarded the Cardinal with requests for favors, indulgences, blessings, and permissions.

While Theo was settling in at the small secretary desk brought in by three strapping footman the Cardinal had already barred chapel door and was already falling into an exhausted slump that stooped his shoulders and bowed his head. His trembling fingers pawed clumsily for the hidden pocket sewn into the underside of his silk mozzetta. He struggled to remove a single serving of the special tincture that would, God willing, relieve the excruciating pain boring through his skull like needle forced through thick leather. He tore open the delicate sachet and pour the powder into a goblet full to the brim with sacred wine. Hastily he imbibed it all in one desperate, choking gulp. After he was sure he had swallowed the very last drop he slammed the heavy cup down between two matching silver and ivory figures of the cross, leaning forward on shaking arms and panting harshly as if the act had drained the last of his reserves. He licked his lips and let his eyes flutter closed.  
Dust motes floated on waves of morning light. Each beam was steeped in the rich colors of the stained glass set high upon the walls. The rays draped across the plush carpets and pews padded with purple velvet and skimmed across the gold plate and highly polished marble floors.

All was quite save the soft echo of his breath. The court and his responsibilities felt very far away. It was moments like this when he almost missed Roch-

Richelieu bit his lip until it bled.

He collapsed at the knees and stayed near prostrate before the alter and the towering likeness of Christ crucified that stood twice as tall as a man and shining all over in gold and ebony. He remained there for what felt to him to be an age. He seemed content to huddle in on himself and allow the world with all of its noise and neediness to pass him by.

It was nearing a half hour when at last the throbbing agony scoring the inside of his head began to recede like the low tide rolling back the waves from the shore. The sweat beading on his grimaced brow and curled upper lip began to dry, his jaw loosened and unclenched, and his eyes, still sensitive to the light, flinched open enough for him to make out the blurred shape of the wall hangings and veined marble cherubs hovering behind the cross. It was another few minutes before he was able to drag himself up and lock his knees upstanding. Still longer before he could clean himself up. To that end he took a few bracing pulls of something stronger than sacramental wine (kept in a side cabinet behind the ceremonial linens and beneath a set of spare candlesticks).

When at last he felt better, if not wholly himself again, he resettled his zucchetto upon his head and brushed away the wrinkles from crimson silk of his cassock. He put away or disposed of any evidence of his inconvenient infirmity and moved around behind the alter, sweeping away the fine hangings with one arm. In his free hand he produced a small wooden wedge that he neatly fit into a hair-fine crack in the marble wall. With a judicious application of force the wedge pushed in a few more centimeters and hit upon the secreted catch that immediately set the heavy door swinging pendulously open but only the width of a man's hand. Prying it open just a little further, Richelieu sidled though, sucking in his gut and being careful not to catch any of his ornamentation on the rough edges of the egress. Utilizing a metal lever pounded whole inches into the inside of the door, he gave a mighty heave and closed it until behind him until he felt the lock engage.

The darkness, pitch black and heavy with stale, stagnant air, was a different sort of silence from his brightly lit and sweet-smelling chapel. Here one had the sense that the world did not just move around you but that it moved on around you. Here you could be forgotten. Here was an oubliette within the most beautiful palace in the world. To stand in such utter darkness was a haunting reminder to Richelieu that all a man has in this world is what he's done. His body, his presence, will be so much ash and dust but what he leaves behind, the mark he makes, that could carry his name into eternity. 

Flames hissed as sparks from his flint and steel began to greedily devour the head of the nearest torch. It hung from a rough iron sconce he'd located with the familiarity of his surroundings and not a few moments of groping. The light fought back the darkness enough to reveal an exceedingly narrow stone passage with a low ceiling covered in matted spider webs. His steps echoed before and behind him as he traced several turns and descended a set of steep steps to a lower landing before at last coming to an outline of a wooden door. He placed his torch in another iron sconce on the opposite wall.

He knocked once, counted to fifteen, then knocked again.  
He waited.  
A knock, a scrape, and then four light raps in rhythmic succession came from the other side.  
There was a pause.  
The Cardinal knelt and knocked low on the door- twice.  
Two answering knocks came through from high up on the door. 

This simple, clandestine communication confirmed his identity to those within and confirmed their identity to him. Richelieu relaxed his shoulders. In a matter of moments the wooden door was pried open, forced out of place with a groaning scrape. The dislodged dust and splinters fell upon his head as he ducked gracelessly into the windowless subterranean room. Above them the palace was alive with all of the trappings and ceremony of the glittering court but down here, so far below that they stood closer to hell than heaven, bare dirt floors, rough-hewn stone walls, and slithering shadows made them welcome. Torches like the one the Cardinal had carried were placed in each corner and several fatty-smelling candles sat skewered upon rusted metal prickets on a long rectangular table at the center of the room.  
Those standing around the table bowed or curtsied as was appropriate, eyes respectfully lowered while the Cardinal brushed the gritty debris from his shoulders. As he finished tidying himself Richelieu gestured sharply for nearest Lord, one Georges Jean-Rimone, Duc de Chevreuse, to speak.

"Good evening, Your Grace. Our spies all report that the dinner went well en-"

"I was there, Georges, I hardly need a recitation of events that I have already witnessed firsthand."

Smiling playfully, Georges placed his palms flat against the table and leaned in cheekily toward the Cardinal. "Ah, but did you happen to take note of a stolen moment between a certain willowy young Musketeer and the lecherous English Duke?" Richelieu's eyes narrowed in warning; he was in no mood for either his flirtation or his games. 

"I see," Georges sighed, pulling back and rolling his eyes. "Well, it seems that the wicked wolf has a little Gascony lamb in his sights now and I have it on good authority that the lamb is at the very least... intrigued. As the festivities ended and all were off to their beds like good little children, the Duke was seen speaking quietly with him and they even brushed hands as they parted. It was all quite intimate."

A round-faced woman with lovely long eyelashes and painted lips seated to the left of Richelieu scoffed indelicately, "How reliable is this information?"

Georges grin slid back into place but his eyes mocked them all.

"Very. Whether their moment together can be explained away by Buckingham being a randy sod or D'artagnan being a slut, the point remains that my witness can read body language like your Grace reads Latin and they say the pair fairly seethed with sexual tension. Quite frankly I'm sorry I missed it." 

The lady, Christine Marie, wife of the Duc de Charost, giggled and she fanned herself indolently as if she were at a garden party. "Were there any other witnesses to this breathless moment?"

"Perhaps a few of the Musketeers or palace guard but neither group is likely to spread rumors or to talk ill of one of their own. Especially not when that one is the famous D'artagnan! " George pretended to swoon. "They all love him. His standing amongst the fighting men is quite sickeningly profound."

The Cardinal nodded, absently stroking his beard as he considered how this might be played to his improve his own position. It just might be possible to turn this one small crack in the Duke's otherwise peerless facade into the cornerstone of Richelieu's conspiracy against the Musketeers. It was only fitting that since the Musketeer's ripped his soulmate from him that he should use the soulmate of a Musketeer to bring them down.

"Encourage speculation," he said at last. "Hint at scandal. Use wit and innuendo to breed rumor and hearsay about the Duke and D'artagnan. I want to hear whispers about secret liaisons and secluded trysts. Then when that gossip is whipped up and the court is frothing I want you and your vassals to suppose that D'artagnan and Athos seem closer, that their touches last longer and their conviviality seems more amorous than fraternal. After that..." Richelieu shrugged delicately. "Make him a whore of Babylon. Pair him with an entire battalion if you must but see to it that his virtuous reputation is driven into the gutter." 

A brawny man leaning heavily against the far wall clapped slowly, pushing away from the support with his shoulder. "Is that it then? We ruin the boy's good name and connect him carnally to the Duke through uncorroborated chitchat? Chitchat that accuses the Musketeers of nothing at all substantial that might be taken to the King?"

"Come off it, Michel!" The second lady stood at the end of the table, between Lady Christine and Lord Georges, threw an overripe berry at him. She plucked another from the lone dish on the table, took a bite, and then tossed the rest at his head.

"You know very well that your reputation is the surest shield you have! You are made and unmade by the King's favor and the court's opinion. If you are disgraced, that shield can just as surely become the stone they roll over your tomb."

"Well said, Joséphine, dear!" her husband, the Duc de La Vallière, complimented, taking her juice-stained fingers and kissing the tips.

Georges groaned at the display, not interested in physical displays of affection unless there was a possibility he would be asked to join in. Vicomte Michel was muttering obscenities while picking fruit pulp from of his hair. The La Vallières were whispering sweet nothings to each other. The Cardinal had had enough.

"Silence!" he bellow, slamming his hand down onto the table, making the candles shiver.

For an entire minute no one spoke or dared to breathe. In the wake of his roar Richelieu began a slow turn around the room. As he stalked passed Georges the man ducked his head, the cutting edge of his tongue suddenly dulled. The ladies hid behind their hair and fans, and broad-shouldered Michel averted his eyes like a pup taken up by the scruff. When Richelieu broke the hush, having returned to place at the center of the table, he did not raise his voice. He didn't have to.

"I have no need of more children to waste my time. I am at the beckon call of the most ignorant, detestable child every to sit upon any throne in any Christine land so please believe me when I say that my tolerance for idiocy has not increased with exposure. However, if you are under some misapprehension that I am in any way indulgent of your infantile behavior, then allow me once and for all to disavow you of any such notion." They still refused to look at him, as if he were Medusa and they would all turn to stone if they met his eyes.

"Good. This is the future of France that hangs in the balance and a lack of care and discretion by those here present could doom Her and us. Now, Michele, tell me about the rats."

Michel mumbled until Richelieu knocked the bowl of fruit against the wall with such force that the metal dented and bits of stone broke away. They all to jumped. Christine Marie gasped shrilly.

"Th-they a-a-are," Michele swallowed thickly and started again, the words spilling over his lips too fast. "They are keen to c-complain and easy to insight to discontent, My Lord!" He winced. "I mean Your Grace!"

Richelieu waited him out. "The man you sent, the P-Piper, he riled them with stories about the mo-moral bankruptcy and gross excesses of the King and Queen. He even bandied a false rumor of new taxes on wine and flour. I've never seen a man turn a group of disheartened peasants into a bloodthirsty mob with such rapidity and control! He twisted ev-" the Duc de La Vallière thumped his shoulder. "Yes, well," he coughed into his hand. "With a little more time he said that they would be ease enough to herd toward rebellion. They wallow in their own discontent and he feeds them more than enough kindling to ignite the betrayal and hate in their hearts."  
The group of conspirators all waited to see how Richelieu would interpret this report.

His response was to clap his hands together as if the earlier unpleasantness had never happened. "Excellent! Tell our friend to keep the people's dissatisfaction at a fine simmer. It would not due to have riots and chaos before it best suits.

"To that end, I have been speaking to certain interested parties abroad and financial support for our ventures has already been guaranteed. Martial reinforcement has been promised but only if certain strict conditions are met and as yet the circumstances have not aligned. If we can cast suspicion upon sweet D'artagnan and his allegiances, through his downfall it may be enough to fracture the trust between the King, the Queen, and their precious Musketeers. It may leave them vulnerable enough to our other machinations and, if we're very lucky, a diplomatic incident might be arranged to occur that demands retaliation." He chuckled sardonically. "Plans within plans."

"And when this is all done?" Lady Joséphine inquired stanchly. He husband tried to hush her but she persisted. "When the work is finished and the dust settles? Your assurances of due reward at the time of your ascension have been provocative enough to lure us into your web and yet vague enough to promise nothing. As we stand here in a room with an apt likeness to a dungeon, discussing treason as if it were the weather, how are we to reconcile the possibility of losing our heads when your recompense is so intangible?"

"My Lady," Richelieu laid a hand over his heart and bowed his head to her, "as ever your bold words and incisive mind lead me to mourn that you were not born a man. What a politician you would have made! Ah, but then, could I take the competition?" His smile sharpened.

"My word should be all you require however I of course understand that risk must be rewarded. For each of you I have prepared grants of land and estates with matching allowances from the crown, of course, with our thanks. They will be carved out of the properties and holdings I will confiscated from those who do not ally themselves with our new regime. Those loyal to me will be elevated to the most prestigious positions within the court and government while those who range themselves against me will be brought low like the bootlicking royalist scum fantasists they are!" 

"That's that then," Georges murmured. He sashayed around the table, taking the Cardinal's hand and kissing his ring, a spine-chilling mixture of murder and mischief shining up at Richelieu in the flicking light.

One by one, each Lord and Lady kissed his ring to pledge their allegiance to the downfall of the King and the usurpation of his throne.

"Remember this night, my friends," Richelieu announced grandly, leaning low to blow out the nearest candle. "This was the night France was born again and a dynasty was begun."  
Around them the darkness crept a little nearer.


	21. Ch. 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the mighty long wait. Major grammar fix. Like wow.
> 
> See end for notes

_He was in Lupiac. His village lay in the distance._

_Brilliant blue skies as far as the eye can see above gently rolling hills and fields that ripple like a shaken quilt over the countryside. The occasional wagon creaks and rattles along meandering dirt roads lined with wild sunflowers and fragrant lavender._

_His beloved Gascony._

_He was home._

_D’artagnan slowly turned, head tipped back as he drank in a lungful of clean, fresh air; free from the toxic humors of Paris it had never tasted so pure on his tongue. This was where his soul could take its ease and his mind could forget. Troubles, concerns, fretfulness, all made distant and kept dormant by the feeling of the afternoon light on his cheeks, soft like his mother’s caress; it was so familiar that his smile verged on tears and his muscles trembled with an excess of joy he had no proper words to express._

_He belonged here. He could run free here._

_His heart expanded as his chest did, taking in as much of the fragrance of his golden childhood as he could._  
…the cool crispness of the water as if flowed along the brook between the hills…  
…the richness of freshly turned soil and the sun-warmed earthiness of the vegetables in the garden…  
…the slightly sweet scent of newly laid hay in the stable… the musky odor of the animals lodged in the weathered old barn…  
“D’artagnan? D’artagnan where are you? It’s time for lunch!”

_That was his mother’s voice. A happy tear dampened his lashes and slid down his cheek._

_“Come along, boy!” A deep chuckle. “Listen to your mother!”_

_That was his father’s laughter._

_His feet were flying toward the modest cottage, set back from the winding road before he could think to order them hence. He wanted his mother’s arms around him, his father’s steady heartbeat under his ear, he wanted to feel sa-_

_“-fety cannot be guaranteed but the King insists.”_

_D’artagnan stood in the doorway, arm still outstretched to hold open the door, but rather than looking upon the much-missed, welcoming smiles of his parents he observed Captain Treville pacing the length of his Spartan office in the barracks of the palace, sternly briefing four cloaked figures who appeared to be listening intently. The window behind Treville revealed a starry night rather than the bright afternoon. The icy wind blowing in behind D’artagnan through the open door skittered up his spine, shaking a shiver from him, hip to shoulder. This was not… hadn’t he just been h-_

_“-ome where he hopes to coordinate with the southern nobles who have traditionally supported the royal family. Our job is to make sure he arrives at his primary estate alive.”_

_D’artagnan stepped forward, lashes fluttering in confusion. “I know this. I was here.” As he came around toward Treville, unnoticed by all participants, he peered beneath the hoods of the cloaked men and saw his brothers three and, terrifyingly, his own face staring impassively forward at their Captain._

_“The Duke of Anjou,” D’artagnan chanted along with Treville as the Captain went on to detail the proposed plan for the delivery of the King’s cousin.  
This was madness!_

_D’artagnan fled back through the doorway, hoping to find himself once more in idyllic Gascony, but rather he stumbled through into the darkened interior of a large stone room, catching himself on a set of chairs arranged before a wide wooden desk._

_The suits of armor, the thick walls decorated with sharp weapons and soft tapestries, the latticed windows… it was all the same. Gone were Treville, his brothers, Paris, and his little farm. As he made to push himself upright he was prevented by the clank and restriction of heavy irons clasping his wrists uncomfortably tight._

_“No,” he whispered, shaking loose strands of hair from his eyes. If he was in the White Keep then-_

_“Hello, darling.” An arm as strong as the metal holding him prisoner slithered around his waist and hauled him back against a firm chest. That scent, the heat, the purr of that voice... “What were you after anyway?”_

_D’artagnan tried to speak but a leather-gloved hand slid leisurely up his chest to wrap around his vulnerable throat. The fingers tightened enough to warn him against speech but loose enough to allow him breath if he was careful._

_“Secrets, lies, it’s all a game really.” The shoulder of his shirt had been shifted down by the pull of his hem between them. The exposed skin was found by lips that marched along the taut muscles as if they were a conquering army intent on subduing every inch. They didn’t press to kiss. Rather Buckingham breathed him in deeply in that savoring way D’artagnan had soaked in the quintessence of his homeland._

_“Although the price of loss, as you’ll come to discover, is…” the hand at his hip traced the groove between his pelvis and thigh while those burning lips dragged a line of scorching heat up to D’artagnan’s ear, “rather high.”_

_As those lips closed around his delicate lobe D’artagnan could not prevent a whimper from breaking free of his tremulous control, though he bit his tongue to the point of tasting blood to stop the next helpless noise from escaping. A chuckle rumbled up through the chest behind him._

_“What? No witty last words? No, insults? Pleas for mercy?”_

_As that lower hand pressed its advantage and D’artagnan bit his lip in conflicted anticipation, the Duke whispered darkly, “Sweet dreams, little one. Until tomorrow.”_

“D’artagnan! Rise!”  
  
The arms holding him disappeared like fog burned away by the sun. The floor fell away and he felt himself falling, falling, falling so far….  
  
“D’artagnan! Up with you now!”  
…falling, drifting, sinking downdowndown…}  
“D’artagnan! D’artagnan!”

His cheek smacked into the floorboards, smarting and jarring him enough that his eyes flew open and he grabbed his face with a wince. Immediately a gentle hand was cradling his as if to soothe his hurt. Too much like the phantom touch that still felt as present against his skin as a bruise, D’artagnan’s fist was striking out before he could recall it. Just as swiftly it was knocked away and he found himself carefully pinned to the bedframe at his back.

“It was just a dream, D’artagnan, a night terror. You are awake now, brother. Just breathe until the strength of its hold on you wanes and you are yourself again.”

“Aramis?” D’artagnan whispered, blinking feverishly through the predawn gloom of the barracks dormitory. Aramis smiled encouragingly, “Tis I, my friend.”

“What happened? I was dreaming but it was so strange…”

“You would not wake from the throws of whatever dark reverie you were lost in. I nearly sent for the physician.”

As Aramis helped him to his feet, he nodded over D’artagnan’s shoulder and only then did the young Gascon realize that they were not alone in the dormitory. His fellow Musketeers resting nearby had been roused by the commotion and stood ready to fetch help if needed. At Aramis’s thanks, they all stood down, returning to their cots.

D’artagnan’s cheeks flushed with embarrassment. Aramis chucked him beneath the chin good-naturedly. “Don’t worry. There is not a man in our ranks who have not succumbed to poisonous visions in the night. We walk with Death as if he were an old friend. No matter the righteousness of our cause our lives are constantly in danger. Pain and blood do not a pleasant rest make.” His dark eyes grew hazy as if seeing something very far away. He shook himself after a moment, his empathetic smile dimming before flaring to life once more. “Ghosts and consequences daily haunt our steps. Is it any wonder that they would haunt us in our sleep too?”

“Ghost and consequences,” D’artagnan murmured, rubbing the lingering burn of weariness from his eyes.

“It is our lot, I’m afraid. Now, how do you feel?”

D’artagnan took stock of his body, deftly ignoring his heart which felt like a scab that had been picked off before it had had a chance to heal. “I’m awake. That’s all I can say for now.”  
Aramis nodded. “Good enough.”  
All was silent between them as they assisted each other up from the drafty floor. They went about gathering their things and moving into the outer  
rooms to dress and prepare for the day.

While Aramis ordered a quick breakfast to be brought up from the mess, D’artagnan stood before a washstand, cupping his hands together and scooping up a palm-full of chilly water from the metal basin. He splashed it on his face and down his neck, scrubbing his cheeks and raking it through his hair. He did this several more times until he felt revived and human once more. The water dripped and streaked down his torso until he gathered the towel hanging next to the basin and daubed himself dry.

A servant in the royal livery crept in, silent as a shadow, and replenished the water. When he turned around a set of clothes had been laid out for him with a note written out in Constance’s elegant, fluid penmanship. D’artagnan sighed, his fingertips delicately tracing the tastefully minimal detailing that twined down the lapel like ivy around a trellis.

What was the matter with him? He’d foolishly thought that with the return of the easy camaraderie between himself and Athos that his dreams would once more settle and be at peace. He snorted derisively at his own naivety. He sought security in a house of ignorance and shelter beneath the crumbling roof of his own fear and self-doubt. How had he expected that the mending of one relationship would counterbalance the precariousness of the rest of it?

He’d asked Porthos once why he chased down the haughty women who, though beautiful and rich, were more the sort to sharpen their claws against his signature arrogant wit than say a single sweet word. Porthos had been saluting just such a maiden from across the marketplace with the baguette they were purchasing for supper. At the woman’s sneer, he’d engaged the baker’s servant to send a colorful pastry to the lady. When she received it she glared blackly at them from behind her silk fan, turning the confection away as if it were poisoned.

The servant had come scurrying back blushing hot enough to turn her face and neck a rosy shade of sunburnt pink. Too scandalized to repeat the lady’s very unladylike parting jab aloud, she’d leaned in to whisper it in Porthos’s ear. This made Porthos chuckle heartily, taking the pastry up himself and tearing a bite from it as he grinned blinding at her around sugar and dough. D’artagnan had shaken his head, utterly baffled by his large friend. Once he was finished eating he’d put his arm around D’artagnan’s shoulders and reeled him closer in a conspiratorial manner.

“Nothing in this life worth having is so simple, lad. Would you rather have a mate who is precious and biddable?” His voice went high and screechy and he fluttered his lashes. D’artagnan rolled his eyes, chuckling. “Do you want a mate who always agrees and hasn’t the belly to take you in hand when you’re acting the fool? A mate should be someone who challenges you and makes you feel alive! I know myself to be a hard man who muddles through this miserable world by taking every happiness on offer and when there is none I make my own! My mate will be the same. They will be cheeky, and they will be bold, and they will most certainly have a touch of wildness about them. Why waste my time with wilting lilies when what I need is a radiant sunflower that reaches for the sky?”

That had been early on in their friendship but it rang as true then as it did now. How could he have expected his soul mate to be a farmer who has never yearned to see lands beyond the borders of their village, or a merchant fearful of sword fights and adventure, or a courtly lord more concerned with frippery and fashion than duty and honor? Was it really so strange that God and his heart had chosen him a perfect match that he would have to fight and struggle for? As Porthos had so sagely said, “Nothing in this life worth having is so simple.” It made an exasperating sort of sense.  
D’artagnan put aside the fine set of clothes from the Queen and instead pulled on his new official dress uniform. He would bear the sigil of his brotherhood like a shield across his chest. Let it be a reminder that while he was willing to fight and find a way through all of the entanglements, that his mate had best understand what it would mean to fight for him as well. Let Buckingham –George- know the sort of man he is and where his onus lay.

Feeling heartened in a way he hadn’t since he’d first gone to plead before the Queen, D’artagnan finished readying himself. As he rewrapped the outfit sent by the Queen he heard a rasp of crinkling paper. Beneath the collar he found a second letter, this one left unsigned but very obviously from the Queen. He could hear her high voice reciting the words with perfect, sharp diction:

  
_“As your friend I wish to help you in any way that I can to secure your happiness but I am, alas, so much more than that and so I find my sense of duty at war with my conscience. I know you know this conflict well._  
_First, let me offer you advice as your friend… A certain gentleman that we have discussed was once an admirer of mine before I was wed. Things went no further than coy smiles and mild wordplay. He had then, as he does now, a magic about him that can melt away a room and slow time until you feel that you are the only soul in Christendom he cares for. By turns he will also make you feel as though he is a spring wind, changeable and with a dark chill edging his warmth. This gentleman is dangerous and charismatic, and oh so clever… All traits you’ve been warned of before. If you should in short order find yourself in his presence I urge you to keep your wits about you and remember that all who have come before were mere players in a drama that was written for you. He has never to my knowledge engaged in a substantiated affair. All of his supposed amorous connections have been spread by rumor and speculation only. Let your heart guide you and listen not to gossip or your own doubting fears._  
_Now let me give you advice as one also chained by my position… Do not let him turn your head or lure you with the perilous fantasy of love conquering all. Do not seduce him only to find that in your inexperience and craving for the peace of a soul mate that you’ve fallen too deeply into your own game. You must seduce him with your heart and mind as well as your body so that he might be willing to concede much to be with you. All of this you must do while keeping a level head. I do not envy you, but I do charge you to remember France and our people. What happens between you two has the power to shake the foundations of the earth._

D’Artagnan appreciated the Queen’s discretion in not naming names, using proper titles, or even indicating the sex of the writer; if the note were intercepted it could be interpreted to apply to myriad courtiers with a flair for clandestine drama. He reread the letter twice before approaching a nearby lantern and putting it to the flame. Once the ink had bubbled away and the thick paper had been reduced to nothing but ash he cleaned up the remnants and left the room.

Their morning meal was hearty (Aramis threatened to have their fellow Musketeers hold him down while he force fed him if he didn’t take his nourishment like a grown man). With a roll of his eyes, D’artagnan selected some cold ham and made a show of taking a large bite.  
Following breakfast they received a blessing at the small chapel dedicated to the use of the Musketeers on the dormitory grounds. It was traditional to seek a blessing before riding out on a mission- regardless of whether it was legitimately commanded or secretly ordered.

While Aramis was in the confessional D’artagnan had crossed himself and withdrawn to review the latest reports about the movements of the Queen and the Duke. These revealed that Buckingham and his retinue had removed themselves to his flagship early in the morning for “religious observances” meaning an English Protestant service rather than a French Catholic one. The Queen, they recounted, had risen as usual and accompanied the King to Mass before returning to her own rooms with her ladies to entertain a merchant selling unset gems and jewelry. The King and his ministers had been locked behind closed doors attending to the daily work of State. It was all as any other morning. Two hours before noon D’artagnan and Aramis were finally ready to set out. Or, they should have been ready to set out.

“I’m sorry sir but, well…” the stable hand fidgeted nervously, dancing from foot to foot. “I mean she’s lovely! An absolute b-beauty! All the boys say s-so! It’s just that we’ve tr-tried treats and pr-praise and promises for near an hour now and it won’t do no good!”

D’artagnan groaned, throwing an elbow into Aramis’s ribs when the traitor began to snicker. “Alright, alright… calm down. I know you didn’t do anything wrong.” He crossed his arms and braced himself. “What has she done now?”

The stable hand, Henri, twisted his fingers together anxiously. Everyone knew the story about what happened to the last person who spoke ill of D’artagnan’s precious mare. “Sh-she nearly snapped Pierre’s fingers clean off, sir!” He flinched as if expecting a slap. When none came and D’artagnan appeared only mildly annoyed, Henri continued. “She won’t let no one come close else they’re like to get they’re head kicked clean off their shoulders! We really have tried, my lord, but she’s not having any of it absolutely no-”

Ignoring his tittering “friend” (who seemed entirely too gleeful about the skittish stable lad and ornery horse to actually be of help) D’artagnan soothed the boy, assured him that he was no lord, and bid him return to the stables at once and let Buttercup know that he was on his way and that he was very displeased with her pettish behavior. They all knew the contrary beast would understand perfectly well. So ordered Henri bowed and walked/ran back toward the stables, shoulders slouching with relief. D’artagnan spun on his heel and glowered. Aramis shrugged, smirking like butter wouldn’t melt.

Together they walked at a brisk clip toward stables. There was the Petite Écurie which, despite its diminutive name, was as splendid and awe-inspiring a structure as any could hope to be. It was situated beside its twin, the Grande Écurie, separated by the sweeping Avenue de Paris. Both stables were hives of human labor and activity with nearly 1,500 men working as one to maintain the horses and transports for the King and court. There were coachmen, postilions, footmen, messengers, chair-bearers, stablemen, blacksmiths, saddlers, tack manufacturers, horse surgeons… the list was endless. This made discretion hard to arrange but Musketeers were famously closed-lipped about their service and the nature of their duty often saw them coming and going at odd hours. Their presence was noted but hardly remarked upon.

Hands on hips, D’artagnan sauntered up to Buttercup’s lavish paddock, disapproval clear on his face. Buttercup huffed at him, eyes rolling accusatorily toward Henri who hovered some distance away with another stable hand (the way he was rubbing his fingers indicated he might have been the one who’d almost lost them), observing.

“Enough of that!” D’artagnan snapped, snapping his fingers before her nose to get her attention. Buttercup pointedly ignored him, neighing aggressively at Henri and scraping her left hoof.

“Oh hush!” D’artagnan sassed back, stepping in front of Henri and looking her right in the eye. “What bee has gotten in your bridle, hmm? I thought we talked about this already?”

Buttercup tossed her head.

“Well I thought it was settled.”

Querulous chuff.

“…...”

“……”

“Okay, obviously not, but you don’t have to be so mean. The boys know perfection when they see it or they’d have gone to the First Equerry to complain about how disagreeable you’ve been. You should apologize to them.”

Contrary to the last she stamped around the paddock before, as if reveling in her own magnanimity, she gracefully bowed her head toward Henri and the other stable lad. They quickly bowed back, nearly bending themselves in half.

“Right then!” Aramis clapped his hands and breezed passed him to his own lovely horse, Belle. “Shall we be off?”

It was the work of minutes to get on the road with the palace at their back. As they trotted along they discussed strategy and objectives. It was decided that Aramis would do most of the talking while D’artagnan would interject as he felt compelled.

Mindful of extenuating circumstances Aramis insisted that they work out a signal that D’artagnan could use if he became too overwhelmed or uncomfortable in Buckingham’s presence. When D’artagnan expressed his embarrassment at his own vulnerability and lack of control where the Duke was concerned, Aramis had reached across the space between them and patted his leg. “All for one and one for all,” he reminded. “Remember, you are not alone in this. Your brothers have your back.”

The rode along in companionable silence. “Even Athos?” he asked tentatively.

“Most especially Athos.”

“I just… I’m not sure how things could possibly end without hearts broken and lives ruined. Being true to my soul would be treasonous to my King." Aramis considered his words carefully. D’artagnan appreciated his prudence.

“Look at where you are, D’artagnan.” He gestured to the capital city that was bustling all around them. “Look at where you started. That you’re alive is a miracle! Truly, God does not grant miracles indiscriminately. Every morning while at prayer I ask Him to guide you, and Porthos, and Athos too. Our lives are so fleeting and our happiness even more so.” He signed in that wise, melancholic way he had, one hand reflexively pressing the silver cross beneath his tabard. “He tests us all. Some of us to a greater degree than others but I believe that in the end those who persevere and do good are the ones who will receive His eternal reward. Perhaps when all of this comes to a head you will find that your reward speaks with a horrible English accent.”

The quip was enough to surprise a laugh out of D’artagnan. Aramis’s contemplative mood melted away at the younger’s bright amusement .D’artagnan had always been proud at his skills of observation but if his mind was a bit clearer and focused than he might have noticed the young black haired man in a valet uniform who watched him intently from a nearby street as if seeing a rare flower opening in the sun.  
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
  
It’s not the whimpering, hysterical wails choked out between mouthfuls of blood or the horrific sight of innards escaping through the ragged seam sliced hip to hip. What stayed with George was the smell; fecal matter, raw meat, suffocating iron tang of blood running hot. The steam that rose into the chilly air.

_Disemboweled men, if they did not lose consciousness immediately, would live long enough to hold their own intestines in badly shaking hands while trying desperately to stuff their knotted bowels back inside. It was an appalling sight but when paired with the smell it was nightmarish beyond imagining._

_The last enemy soldier who had come up against him on the day that God had forsaken, had been severed about the middle with the last of George’s strength. He had to drag his blade with both hand’s white-knuckled around the hilt and with such force that he’d toppled after the wounded man and they both ended up on their knees. His sword, a gift from the King, fell to the ground and was sucked into the mud and gore they were all mired in._  
Sweating and trembling with adrenaline and exhaustion, George tried to lift his arms, to rearm himself, but they hung at his sides like limp dough and he knew that he would not be able to heft his blade again so soon. Gritting his teeth he forced his screaming muscles to bend. Only the stiff metal plates of his armor kept him from complete collapse as he pulled the lighter pistol from his boot.  
So equipped he turned back to the man he’d cut down.

_Partially deaf from cannon and musket fire he couldn’t immediately hear the man’s shuddering, gasping whines as the slimy, pinkish ropes of his entrails spilled onto his lap. The agony, the basic human revulsion, and disbelief, all of it were there on his face. His blood was splattered on George’s breastplate and soaked into his gloves. The boy, for he could hardly be called a man by age, looked up him and held out his hands, organs and all, begging George to help him. Distantly, as though from the far end of a tunnel, George could just make out the boy’s sobbing and begging “please” in mangled English over and over as he gagged on a mixture of tears, mucus, and his own blood._

_Around them the battle had slowed. Hours of hard fighting had come down to the remaining fatigued soldiers from both sides staggering and weaving over the bodies of men and horses to end the last of their enemy. Winning, losing, none of it made any sense when one stood in a hell on earth. The sun itself seemed eager to hide its face, slumped in a crimson sky rippling with spindly fingers mottled purple along the horizon._

_George dragged his weary body as close as he could and lifted the arms he’d thought were spent. The young lad’s Dutch uniform was in ruins, the front sticky and drenched from the blood pouring from his wound and from his mouth and down his chin. His blond hair was stiff with sweat and grime. His green eyes, filmed over with tears, reminded George of a leaf floating down a clear stream. His youth and helplessness reminded him of little Christopher._

_Swallowing down his own despair, George reached out and cradled the lad’s face. He brought their foreheads together gently. “Shhhh, shhhhh… all will be well… you’ll be alright…”_

_As those mossy green eyes stared into his, pleading and desolate, George discretely levered his pistol over the boy’s heart. “That’s a good lad… eyes on me now… there will be no more pain… I’m so sorry…”_

_The shot at close range flung the boy back and his own weakness of limb meant George couldn’t keep ahold of him. Such an explosion of noise also renewed his own deafness._  
He was grateful in a twisted way. He couldn’t hear his own tears. He was also fairly sure he was screaming.

“Brother? Brother? Are you alright?”

George rubbed at his neatly trimmed beard as if to wipe away the spittle and tears and blood-splatter that he could still feel smeared along his jaw as the dreaded memory from his youth slowly faded to the back of his mind. He took a deep, controlled breath. “I’m fine…” he turned away from the window with a jovial smile. “Perfectly fine!” He clasping his brother’s upper arm as he walked them over to his desk. “Our plans are finally in motion and I will shortly be in the presence of my mate. What reason have I for anything less than joy?”

Christopher looked concerned but still nodded agreeably. “If you’re sure.”

George chuckled. “You know me, brother!”

Christopher nudged his shoulder as they walked. “I do know you, George, that’s why I asked.”

“Bah!”

As they passed his desk George grabbed up a thick leather folder bound on three sides with ornate silver clasps. As he turned to lock the door behind them he tucked the folder under his arm. Hidden from his brother’s eyes by the bulk of his body, George wrapped a hair-fine cord around the doorknob, securing it to a sliver of splintered wood deliberately but in discernibly picked out of the painted door frame. If someone tried to access his office while he was attending the meeting he would know of it upon his return. Not that any of Richelieu’s spies or Treville’s agents would find any of his meaningful correspondences or vital reports simply lying about with only a single lock to prevent their discovery. Vital or damning documents were secreted and secured in a location only two knew of; himself and, perhaps incongruously, his priest.

When he turned back to his brother (who was fidgeting in place and obviously lost in a daydream of a certain lovely young noblewoman) the key was already folded into a hidden pocket tucked beneath the many layers of his outfit. It would take damn near defrocking him for someone to pickpocket it.

Together they made their way down the hall. The corridor was just wide enough that they could walk comfortably abreast. It was brightly lit and chased away the windowless gloom with the aid of crystal fixtures and strategically placed small mirrors to encourage the refraction of light (the mirrors were also angled so that one might use them to see around corners). Just below the upper deck, the hall extended the length of the ship that split off into different rooms like tree limbs branching off from the trunk. Here there was his office, of course, and an office shared by his secretary and members of his inner circle, a guard room for his bodyguards, an apartment for himself and bedrooms for his brother, his captain, and important guests, two meeting rooms, a private chapel, and a small armory. On the decks below were rooms for the officers and bunks for the fighting men, the sick bay, the Galley, shot locker, powder magazines, storerooms, and all of the other niches that were necessary for the provision of a military vessel.  
The second door down from his office was known as The Green Room and was the smaller of the two meeting rooms. Decorated tastefully in shades of deep emerald it was not as grand as his office or bedroom but perfectly suitable for their purposes. His plan at this junction wasn’t to overawe D’artagnan (though he felt his airship would do that nicely as a whole without him having to put too fine a point on it) but to encourage a feeling of intimacy and camaraderie of purpose.

Sweeping into the room he was pleased to see that refreshments had already been arranged, a fine bottle had been brought up, and the morning sun was pouring in through a wide bank of windows. He’d instructed that the shutters be rolled back to allow as much natural light and warmth in as possible. To his mind a man like his beloved, who had grown up in the fresh air and wide open spaces of the French countryside, might appreciate not being boxed in with no connection to the natural world.

He strolled over the windows to observe the French soldiers bustling around below them. Christopher wandered away from his brother’s side, still distracted and restless with thoughts of his own lady love. He went to the row of tall cabinets built into the right wall of the room and swung one of the long, narrow doors open. Inside were boxes of uniform size with parchment labels secured to the front of each lid. He ignored these and instead gazed into the square mirror secured to the inside of the door. He gazed critically at himself, pulling at the bags beneath his eyes and trying to pinch some color into his cheeks. George observed his fussing with fond eyes.

“Did the fairies visit your dreams last night and keep you from your rest?” he teased.

As a child rather than being enraptured by tales of fairies and magic Christopher had been quite afraid of them. Fanciful stories told before bed had always guaranteed that knobby knees and bony elbows would be forcing their way into his bed in the dead of night.

Christopher rolled his eyes. “I don’t know how you do it, George, I really don’t.”

“Do what, dear brother?”

“Sleep well. Eat well.” He waved careless hands toward the plentiful victuals arranged on the sideboard. “Drink well. Act as if you remain untouched by all of this! You sleep through the night, peaceful as a swaddled babe, while I” here he thumped his closed fist against his chest “lay awake writing and rewriting draft after draft of truly terrible poetry in the hopes of capturing in insufficient words the lustrous glow of her skin, or the shining essence of her hair, or the way she makes me feel as if- as if I have tasted ambrosia and become filled with the divine!”

The sudden slamming of the cabinet door echoed like a rifle shot through the enclosed room. On the decks below the muffled sounds of the men working fell abruptly silent. Heavy breathing and the creak of the ship underscored the tension that ratcheted up between them like a rope pulled taut enough that a single touch would cause it to snap.

George, stoic as a shaded etching, did not so much as flinch at the noise or his brother’s emotional outburst. His eyes had returned to the middle distance, focused beyond the window and on the road that led toward the palace. This nonchalance seemed to further provoke the younger man whose face had darkened to a muddy rouge. He stalked over to his brother, spitting out his words.

“I must see her again. How about tonight?”

“Tonight? At the play that I and the King’s entire court will attend? I do not think that is a good idea considering how you overstepped last night before the court. I’m not even sure that the guards would allow you entrance.” he stated as he leaned against one of the chairs in front of the desk.

“Please, big brother. You can sell sand to a fish! Convince a worm that it needs to swim! I know you can convince the French Queen to allow me in her presence so I can be near my mate at least for a moment. “You have no idea the how the knowledge of her nearness burns me inside! As if I am a martyr for love and while my heart is put to the flame it is not consumed but endures an endless torment! I never knew it would… could be like this and I feel helpless but to give into it! That I am being so restrained by you and by our circumstances chafes me to the point of frenzy and I-”

With the speed of a striking serpent George seized the front of his brother’s fine coat and shook him violently, dragging their faces together until they were sharing air between them. “You what, Christopher? You what, you oblivious child! You bellyache and strop about my airship in a spoiled tantrum because you have known of your mate but been without her for a single night. I waited decades knowing at the core of myself that my mate wasn’t even yet in this world. That I was doomed to walk alive but half dead, for the best part of myself had not yet drawn their first breath.”

He threw his brother away from him, gentler than before but still obviously offended. He reclined once again against the window frame and leveled his remorseless gaze back on the far road.

“I felt my entire reality shift the moment he arrived. Can you imagine, Christopher? A bond so profound that his entrée into this life was a rebirth for me as well? It would be yet more years after that before I would look upon his radiant face… and then my tower was rendered into a ruin and my mate, my precious D’artagnan, was gone from me.” The siblings stood in silence once again.

“I-I’m…” Christopher squeezed his eyes shut and bowed his head in an unconsciously submissive gesture. “I’m sorry, brother. Please forgive me. I spoke out of turn. I didn’t… in my conceit I did not think of the long years of your grief nor the nobility with which you bore such pain. You’ve always done the very best for us even as you suffered, and while you never spoke of it, we knew. I should have considered your example and proceeded with more grace than I have shown.”

George snorted indelicately, closing his eyes and massaging the bridge of his nose with his thumb and finger. “I must admit, Christopher, that I” he sighed heavily “am at a loss. I would not have you change yourself for all the high titles and gold coin in the world and yet…” he dropped his hand and looked over at him with a weary regret. “…and yet.” His thought remained unfinished at the sound of heavy, rabbit-quick footsteps pounded down the hall.

“Yur Grace! Yur Grace!” A doe-eyed boy with curly dark hair and a distinctly Spanish look about him despite his thick London accent skidded to a stop outside the door, bowing so hastily that he almost tipped himself over. He was saved from falling face-first by the quick intervention of Captain Bennett, who had appeared behind him without so much as a click of his boots to announce him. He caught him by the back of his shirt and hauled him upright.

“Apol’gies, Yur Grace, me lord,” he folded himself into a proper bow this time, acknowledging his Duke first, then Lord Christopher, and finally “And thank ya, Cap’in! Yur a Godsend, you are!”

“What was it you came for, Arthur?” Christopher questioned, not unkindly. During their journey across the Channel, he’d sympathized with the rough lad who seemed fated to trip, stumble, and blunder, when all his eager young heart wanted, was to be graceful for the ladies and useful to his lords. He still wasn’t entirely clear where his brother had plucked him from.

“Oh! Um! Well, they have been spotted on tha road, sir. Them that yous been waitin’ fo’.”

George leaned closer to the windows, dark eyes narrowed and trying to make out what his lookouts had already seen. Just there, at the far end of the visible road, were two dark smudges moving steadily toward them. So focused was he that he didn’t notice Christopher dismissing Arthur and summoning the Captain further into the room. An urge overcame him wait for the Frenchmen to board the airship, call for this men to raise the sails, throw Aramis overboard and sail back to England post-haste but alas that will not go over well with various parties especially dear D’Artagnan.

Bennett stood at attention and waited to be acknowledged by the Duke. George stroked his beard as he watched the figures draw closer and closer. “Be ready to welcome our guests aboard. Alert our other ships and tell my counselors that the arrival of the Musketeers is imminent. Be sure that there is no offense given to them or to the surrounding English. Do all as we’ve discussed.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“Have our sentries keep a weather eye and alert me at once if the English deviate from their routines. I also want an extra man added to each guard rotation until tomorrow afternoon. We will reassess then. You’re dismissed.”

From his place by the window George could look down see the two men coming to the bottom of his main airship, The Lady Mary. Aramis looked the same he always did but D’Artagnan looked heavenly in the afternoon sun. His angel looked the fine little soldier in his suit and boots a high polish. Despite his gentle looks, George knew that his young mate was a strong and incredible warrior. Rumors even said that it was young D’Artagnan who slew Rochefort, one of the most feared and vicious swordsmen, on the top of a church roof. To know that his mate had risen out of his humble origins to the strong musketeer that boarding his ship today filled George with both pride and an all-powerful hunger that seemed to grow at the sight of D’Artagnan walking on his ship. As a boy and young man, he had imagined his mate to be many things such as rich, powerful and a true beauty. D’Artagnan certainly had all of these qualities but in different ways than he thought possible. His mate was seemingly rich in character, powerful with a blade and his beauty was beyond denial. Deep in his body and soul, his hunger intensified as the soul words tingled.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
Always a man of few words, Bennett placed a hand over his heart and bowed deeply before withdrawing into the hall. At his departure Christopher cleared his throat and put on a happy smile. “It is almost time! Are you nervous?”

Taking it for the olive branch it was, George replied, “When have you ever known me to be nervous, brother?”

Christopher tapped his chin thoughtfully. “How about that time you tried to convince me there was a troll under the bridge down by the Louther’s mill that we had to slay, and then we both fell in? Old Ed found us soaking wet and covered in river mud and prickly grass, and me bawling that the troll almost got us! He hauled us before mother and you had to explain why I thought a troll nearly ate us. You were shaking in your boots that afternoon!”

George sniffed and tilted his chin up. “I don’t seem to recall that at all.”

“You are such a fibber!”

“I hardly think name calling is-”

“Just admit that you were nervous!”

“I will do no such thing. One shouldn’t lie, little brother!”

“No, one shouldn’t, big brother!”

“Nevertheless I am not nervous. To be in his presence is to finally be able to breathe again. It’s much the same as I imagine a woman feels when she’s released from a corset after a long day.”

Christopher nodded as if this made perfect sense.

“Will you… try to…”

“Tonight.”

“Tonight?”

“The King has announced the debut of a new play he commissioned for his Queen. It is going to be quite the fete and the groundwork I lay here will be a sturdy foundation for me to build upon this evening. Truly, of the three D’artagnan could have suggested accompany him, Aramis is the most reasonable.”

“So you think he’ll treat your suit fairly then?”

“Absolutely not!” George chuckled heartily as if Christopher had told a good joke. He cupped the back of his brother’s head affectionately. “He would sooner string my balls on a strand of pearls than allow me a single indecorous liberty. No, he’ll watch and wait and see far more than I would wish him to. He’ll report all of this back to his brothers and tonight they’ll be as vigilant for D’artagnan’s virtue as they are for the King’s safety. Which is why I have my plan to separate them. I will not be denied my time with him.”

“Then why-”

“Because Athos’s pride and cynicism and Porthos’s temper and indignation will always trigger their actions before their better angels have time to whisper wisely in their ear. Especially when it concerns their littlest Musketeer. Aramis will observe, consider what he’s witnessed and what he knows, and he’ll bide his time. Mark me, of Treville’s lauded quartet, he is the greatest threat to all my plans. If Athos is a lion and Porthos is a bear, Aramis is a wolf. By the time I realize he’s coming he will have crept up at my back and torn out my throat.” Christopher gulped and rubbed his neck.

“I won’t have to worry about my immortal soul at least. He’ll say a prayer as I bleed out so I won’t die unshriven.” George smirked at his own gallows humor while his brother glared at him balefully in a way that clearly said he wasn’t amused, pushing him off.

“I will get you into the palace tonight, brother.” George promised earning a beaming smile that always made their mother melt. “But if you spill another item on anyone I swear I will send you home....to mother and tell her you are sick.” The look of horror on his brother’s face was worth it.

Catching a few of Christopher’s muttered obscenities George’s eyebrows flew up. “Now that is positively uncharitable!”

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

They followed the Seine toward the Boise de Boulogne on the outskirts of the city. An organized tent city had been erected surrounding three enormous grounded airships that clung to the earth by dozens of mighty tethers. Inhabiting the encampment was an army regiment that had been called up to “protect and see to the comfort” of their English “guests”.

Upon arriving they were greeted by Lieutenant-Colonel Turenne, a grizzled veteran of many a military campaign. It was clear he meant to dedicate his life to the King and would remain in faithful service until the end of days.

Obviously fresh from a patrol, Turenne leaped from his horse spry as a man half his age. He tossed the reins to a watchman who stood at straight-backed attention as the Musketeer’s dismounted to meet him.

“Please don’t maim anyone. Please, Buttercup.” D’artagnan whispered. He rubbed her nose and gave her his best puppy eyes. Haughty didn’t even begin to describe the look she gave him as she was led away. It would be a toss-up whether he would come back to a docile Buttercup who couldn’t be bothered with the peasants around her or bloodshed and bodies.

Without so much as a ‘how do you do’ Turenne barked “Come along!”, indicating that they were to follow him like pesky children getting underfoot. Behind his back Aramis mimed fervently praying for deliverance. D’artagnan bit back a smile.

They picked their way through the rows of tents and across the open ground that gave the ships a decent berth. As they passed into the shadow cast by the flagship’s hull Turenne motioned for them to halt abruptly. They did so, determined to be patient with his rudeness in deference to his gray hairs.

Turenne cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted up at the ship. A man leaned over and shouted back. Aramis and D’artagnan shared a dubious look between them which they quickly schooled as Turenne turned to face them, arms rigidly set and looking as ornery as Athos on his worst day.

He poked his thumb over his shoulder. “That boil-headed English bastard will send down the other scurvy-ridden English bastard to fetch you. Why we can’t just blow them out of the sky like we did in the good old days is beyond me! English cloven hooves on French soil… it’s a disgrace! A disgrace!”

Aramis nodded seriously as if he agreed with every word. This commiseration seemed to appease Turenne for the time being as he continued to cantankerously mutter insults into his beard. Left to his own thoughts D’artagnan reflected that his nerves were not quite what they had been during the welcoming ceremony but they were not… insubstantial. While on the road he’d asked Aramis if there as a cure for the butterflies fluttering wildly in his stomach to which his friend had replied: “There is no cure for love.” He’d told him he hadn’t found that helpful at all. The butterflies were positively hysterical now.

“All for one,” Aramis whispered, his lips moving not at all. D’artagnan dipped his chin in the barest acknowledgment. He stood taller and straightened his shoulders. God help me….

As when he’d seen Buckingham descend from the sky for the first time, a door at the bow of the airship opened and from the murky interior a wide ramp lined with a velvet runner was lowered to the ground. The process was efficient and in less than two minutes a man emerged from the dark interior.

He descended with a dauntless gait as if he were not surrounded by a French regiment who would love nothing so much as using his head for a target. He was not as old as Turenne perhaps but certainly older than Aramis. He cut a proud figure in a fitted uniform branded proudly with Buckingham’s coat-of-arms. D’artagnan thought this curious. As part of an official diplomatic mission shouldn’t he bear the King’s colors rather than the Duke’s?

“I am Captain Bennett of his Grace’s personal guard.” He sketched a respectful bow, the silver strands in his dark hair catching the morning sunlight. “I greet you in his name and welcome you aboard.”

As they’d discussed on their way from the palace Aramis stepped forward taking all of the attention onto himself. “Well met, Captain Bennett,” he began. As one Aramis and D’artagnan bowed, in perfect synchronization. “I am Aramis d'Herblay of His Majesty’s Musketeers. This is D’artagnan, likewise of the King’s Musketeers and Captain of the Queen’s security for the duration of the accords. We greet you in the name of his Majesty King Louis XIII and his gracious Queen Anne. We thank you for your most excellent welcome and for your hospitality.”

“Your arrival has been eagerly anticipated, sirs. The safety and security of these talks must be ensured at all costs and the” a mild, mocking light twinkled in his gray-blue eyes “cooperation of the Musketeers will be an invaluable aid to that endeavor.”

“We are most happy to be of assistance, Captain! There can be no greater priority than the protection of the royal family…” Aramis met Bennett’s sardonic manner with a wolfish grin that reminded D’artagnan in an alarming way a little of the Duke, “and their honored guests. Of course.”

Bennett understood the threat that went unsaid. “That is well. I believe we may have need of resources only your elite force can provide.”

“We are, as ever, ready and willing to afford true friends of France with access to all of those assets that we believe might best be of help.” This was the sort of thing D’artagnan had witnessed at the court reception; doubletalk and masked meanings and warnings couched in polite vagary. Any casual observer would see perfect manners and a civilized conversation between enemies but D’artagnan knew that Aramis was making a manifold impression.

“Very well said, sir.” Bennett tipped his head and then pivoted on his heel with military precision. He saluted the fourth member of their group.

“Charmed as ever, Lieutenant-Colonel.” One could not help but hear the dry irony beneath the stiff courtesy.

Behind them Turenne was casting an evil eye up at the ship then over at Bennett then back up at the ship, all the while muttering, far from quietly, “…cotton-headed, cow-whelped English bast-”

“Please,” Bennett swept his arm back toward the ramp politely. “Follow me. His Grace awaits you.”

_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Shifting through English ranks was a slippery and unenjoyable task but one that Athos managed well. The new boys were easy to spy in the Duke’s ranks and even less to fool without their commanding officer’s around. It took little time to learn their schedules so he and Porthos were able to examine some of the cargo in the ships with remote ease. What they found left them more than a little suspicious.

“Athos, why in the world is the Duke packing this much black powder? Is he not only planning to steal our little Gascon but to leave France in flames afterward? And why on this ship?” Porthos demanded as he uncovered another barrel of the substance. Athos frowned deeply from where he was examining his own barrel.

“I would like to say yes but Buckingham is no fool. He should know D’Artagnan would never return with him if he did so. His loyalty to France was made clear at the dinner and to drop a cannon on France would be war. Bringing his armada was a show of force and a threat but this? This is more than even he needs on one ship. To carry this much powder is foolish.” Athos stated as he walked backward slowly. His eyes carefully roamed the entire lower level of the ship carefully. Something was not right about the sight before him. If Buckingham was not going to leave France in flames then what was he intending to do with it? “I will be right back.”

Porthos grunted in reply as Athos climbed the ladder from the bottom belly of the ship to the lower belly. This lever was where he and Porthos believed the ships kept it’s arms and ammunition until the bottom layer was examined by Porthos. The other three ships that they had investigated were all the same. A middle floor for barracks, the top floor mess, the lower middle for weaponry and the very bottom for storage. Something raised the hair on the back of his neck at this discovery. Examining the barrels of powder on this floor Athos walked up to one and opened it. After a moment of study, he dipped his hand in the barrel and felt its contents. This powder was more refined and no doubt expensive than what was found on the floor below. Taking a step back Athos replaced the hood on the barrel stepped back and examined the barrel itself. The finely painted colors caught his eye making some of the ideas in his mind grow more severe. Quickly making his way back to the ladder he looked down at the barrels.

“What is it?” Porthos questioned as he walked to the foot of the ladder.

“These barrels are different.” he stated. “The powder on this floor is much better quality and the barrels were painstakingly painted. What do you make of the powder and barrels on that floor?”

“Cheap. And the paint is a bit shabby.” the larger man answered as he re-examined the barrels on his floor. “Do you think this came from someone else? Maybe to be planted?”

“I don’t know but I don’t like it. Come, we spent as much time here as we should. The shifts change soon.” Swiping the English hat that he had “borrowed” from one the guards in England he quickly made his way up the levels with Porthos behind him. The journey out the ship did not take long as most of the men were in the mess hall collecting their early lunch or late breakfast. From where he and Pothos was on the third ship Athos could clearly see Buckingham’s main ship and to his surprise D’Artagnan and Aramis through a window.

“Well, would you look at that? Our little Gascon is growing up and discussing security with English generals of visibly questionable origin. Poor boy looks like he wants to clog the fellow. 5 pounds he does.” Porthos chuckled as he watched the group from their view but when he did not get a response he turned to his silent companion. “Athos?”

The former noble did not respond but instead looked as if he had seen a ghost. His face was pale and he leaned on the railing heavily as he stared at a red-headed woman leaving Buckingham's ship. Porthos could only think of one other time he saw that expression on Athos face and that is when a certain red-haired lady walked into the King’s palace demanding their surrender.

“My lady….”

“Oh Bullocks.”  
___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

D’Artagnan was not known to be patient but the captain of the English guard was pushing him to new levels. The man was a sound strategist but the value of his words was being undermined by his apparent attitude that he would rather talk to the dogs than speak to Aramis and especially him. They argued over every detail of the troop placement from the palace hallways during events to the guards near the three English ships that stayed on city property. In the end, the three of them reached an agreement none of them truly liked but all could work with. To say D’Artagnan was happy to be free of that room would be an understatement but that joy was short-lived.

“Lord Buckingham decided a tour of his airship would be given followed by a small demonstration of his troops as a sign of friendship to King Louise and his guards. Musketeer Aramis, you are the senior, correct?” The captain asked.

“I am.” Aramis answered evenly but D’Artagnan could see the wariness enter his friend’s face.

“Very well. You shall be given the tour as a benefit of your status.” The captain announced.

Aramis and D’Artagnan looked at each other with mild surprise and nervousness. “And what of my fellow Musketeer?” the former priest asked quietly as a hand went to the Gascon’s shoulder.

“As the junior member of the pair, he shall deliver a minor report to the Duke. He is also the Queen’s guard, yes? Then he can also direct any messages from the queen the Duke might wish to spend. I trust these arrangements are suitable?” the captain asked in a tone neither Frenchmen appreciated. Aramis did not immediately respond but instead turned to D’Artagnan with a question in his eye. This was not a complete surprise to them. Athos and Aramis told him something like this would happen. Heck, D’Artagnan knew it was coming the moment the Duke suggested a meeting but it did not help the butterflies in his stomach. Of course, this was going to happen. One did not expect to spend time in the lion’s den and not expect to face the lion. He was even dressed for the occasion to continue his mission of seduction. Faking a smile he did not feel D’Artagnan nodded to his friend who gave his shoulder a squeeze before turning back to the Captain with a cocky smile in place.

“These arrangements are more than suitable and we appreciate the Duke’s kind offer. We are ready when you are.” Aramis announced to the Englishman. The man nodded before motioning another guard to step forward. “This man will take you to the Duke’s office. If you will follow me Musketeer Aramis.” The man turned his back and walked off with the clear expectation that Aramis would follow. Aramis spared him one more look before turning his back and walking off for his tour. D’Artagnan watched his friend for a moment before turning to the English guard with a polite nod.

“After you, ser.” D’artagnan greeted his guard who nodded back and briskly started walking along the side of the ship that D’Artagnan had passed when he had originally boarded. The walk was short but to his racing heart it could have been an hour. Soon he would once again be face to face with his soulmate who he had not seen since yesterday. Saint Mary, has it only been yesterday since they laid eyes on each other? For a split second touched each other? His hand warmed at the memory. All too soon they had come to a door that was thicker and looked more secure than all the others.

“Lord Buckingham’s chambers, sir.” The guard announced and without another word walked away. Swallowing once he was alone D’Artagnan raised his hand and knocked on the door. There was no answer after a minute so he knocked again only to be left in silence. D’Artagnan glanced around but nobody was nearby to question so he turned back to the door. Should he call out? What would be the correct term to call? George? To informal. Mate? To daring. Duke Villiers? A bit distant.

“Lord Buckingham?” he called deciding to use the title he heard being used. Once again he was met with silence. Maybe he was meant to enter the cabin and wait for the Duke to appear? Testing the doorknob the cabin door swung open with ease to the Gascon’s bewilderment. Stepping inside D’Artagnan was greeted with a tastefully, if not expensive, furnished cabin. The rug that he stepped on was thick and the couches were large and invited one to sit on them. There was a small table set up in the middle of the room with covered dishes over them as if two people ate a meal and left them there. A quick glance showed both the chairs were pulled out as if the occupations had left without pushing them in. Stepping over to the table he could smell a delicious and familiar aroma rising from under the covers. Turning away from the table D’artagnan continued his exploration. The desk had it’s back to the window but there were a few papers stacked neatly on top. What truly caught his eye was the glassed door cabinet that sat between the desk and table. It was filled with a few guns, a few swords and a trinket or two, however, none of them compared to the coronet that sat on the blue pillows. It was a spotless silver with round and square sapphires set into the metal. Set on the tips of peaks between the fleurs were sparkling pearls. All together it was a breathtaking piece while rising suspicions that it might be the one that Buckingham claimed to have made for him at the end of the dinner yesterday.

“Do you like it?” A voice asked him startling D’Artagnan out of his trance. Turning on his heel the Gascon was face to face with the Duke of Buckingham who was closing the door behind him. He was dressed similar to how he was when they met in England but his colors were a deeper green than D’Artagnan thought possible. None of what the Duke wore was more eye-catching than the look in his eyes as if D’artagnan was the prey that was to be pounced on. To be so close to him was twisting D’Artagnan’s stomach into knots while he could feel his hands starting to sweat.

“Pardon?” he managed to choke out.

“Do you like it?” The Duke repeated as he slowly walked further into the room. “I had the best jeweler in England working on it just for you. I thought that sapphires would compliment you.”

D’Artagnan thought of glancing back at the crown but he could not pull himself away from Villiers smoldering eyes. The Englishman was getting slowly closer but instead of feeling trapped D’Artagnan found himself drawn to the man to the point he started walking closer.

“It is certainly a thing of beauty.” the Gascon admitted as he came to a stop 8 inches before the Duke. “I’m might have to try it on one day to tell. I’m a little underdressed for it now.”

“You are not underdressed to me. I would not mind to one day see you wear it and nothing else.” The Duke crooned lovingly as he cupped D’artagnan’s face with his hands. The warmth from Villier’s skin sank deep into D’Artagnan’s flesh in till his whole body was warm and his knees weak. The works imprinted on his arm seem to come alive at the first true contact between them. Without thinking, D’Artagnan leaned into the hands that were cradling his face as the younger man reached out and clung to a forearm while the other landed on the Englishman’s chest where he could feel the heat of the older man’s flesh through the jacket.

The Duke’s body trembled under his hands as a soft noise escaped his mouth. The man stared at him as intently as he did back in England. It was here with his face held so softly that D’Artagnan lost himself once again in the man’s eyes. In the sunlight, they were a light brown like that of soft leather but were quickly darkening as they examined him.

“You get more beautiful every time I look at you.” he whispered gently as his warm breath seemed to dance across the Gascon’s face. One of this thumbs brushed against D’Artagnan’s lips which he parted under the gentle touch. The action caused the older man to shudder again as one of his hands ran down D’Artagnan’s face down to his neck to rest on his shoulder. A light squeeze brought a frown to the Duke’s face and a shot of fear to the Musketeer’s heart which must have been clear as the hand on his shoulder wrapped around him. A small part of him wanted to whine as his hands lost contact but the arm remaining around him helped.

“My dear, you are so thin. Have you eaten today? Come, let me feed you. I had this made especially for you.” The Duke stated as his free hand waved over the table from which the amazing food smell was still rising strong and familiar. “I had many some inquiries in Gascony food a month or two ago in. I hope you find it delicious and familiar.”

D’Artagnan slid into the seat the Duke had guided him to in a light form of shock which he quickly snapped out of. If the man would have a coronet made for him and come charging across the channel after him than why wouldn’t a meal from his homeland be any different?

The chair upon which he sat was plush and soft but with the right amount of support that he could sit for hours. As the Duke moved from beside him the Englishman’s hand slid over his shoulder and unknowing over the words on his arm. The touch on his words made the heat in his body grow hotter which he tried to cover by sipping the water in one if the glasses as the older man slid into his seat with more grace than one should contain.

“Wine?” The Duke offered from a pitcher.

“Please.” D’artagnan asked as he offered up his glass which he held with the tips of fingers like the queen showed him. Once it was full the Villiers raised it in a toast towards the younger man.

“too many more meals together, my dear.” he toasted.

“too many more.” D’Artagnan echoed in reply before taking a sip of the wine. A small moan almost escaped his lips at the burst of flavor on his tongue. “Wow.”

“I’m glad it’s to your liking. Hopefully, the food shall match the wine in your pleasure. I had made  
Garbue soup, Landaise salad, and Lamprey à la bordelaise. To finish it all up will be a special treat. Please, enjoy.” The Duke announced as he removed the covers from the dishes.

D’Artagnan took a moment to soak in the sight of the dishes from his homeland on the table. It had been over a year since he had been home and to have its dishes spread before him was a mighty gift. Reaching a hand for his spoon D’Artagnan took precaution to obey every rule the Queen had drilled into him as he took a sip of his soup. This time he failed to cut back on a moan as his mind was filled with the memory of home at the taste. A sharp exhale brought D’Artagnan’s mind back to the present causing him to open his eyes to see the Duke staring at him hungrily as if he was the meal. D’Artagnan found his body warming in kind.

“It is just like how my mother makes it. Thank you, my lord.” D’Artagnan spoke up quickly before the blush he felt coming overthrew him. The Duke merely blinked slowly as if coming out of a trance but the hungry look in his eyes remained.

“I am glad it pleases you, my dear. And you don’t need to be so formal. There is no need for that here. Not with me.” The Duke cooed at him as one of his fingers danced across his hand. The Gascon felt his heart skip a beat at the touch as he raised his fingers and allowed them to interlace with the Englishman’s. D’Artagnan was surprised to find them as hard as his own before the fingers around his tightened for just a moment before letting go.

The rest of the meal went on in a similar manner of D’Artagnan trying to be proper and a bit flirty which was hard as the Duke watched him as if HE was the meal to be devoured. The Queen’s words often came back to him in these moments as if he heard them instead of reading them. Hoping to distract the Duke so he could focus D’Artagnan decided to engage the older man on a topic most rich people enjoy talking about: themselves.

“It seems you have me at a disadvantage. You seem to know much of me but I can’t say the same. Would you mind telling me about you? Whatever you wish for me to know.” he requested after swallowing a mouthful of soup. It was the right choice as the Englishman immediately started to talk about his humble beginnings (which were still miles above D’Artagnan’s own) to his time serving the king that earned him higher station after station. The Duke was quite the storyteller that the Gascon was able to finish the soup, salad and most of the Lamprey à la bordelaise before he was done. D’Artagnan suspected he was given the short version and that he should be doing more flirting.

“You have certainly come a long way in your life. More than some people could have dreamed. I find myself curious about what gave you the strength to continue.”

“Many things. My father was a fool who almost drove us to the poor house. I did what I had to so that my mother could live comfortably after doing her best for her children. I did it for my siblings so that they didn’t have to live in shame anymore. I did it for me because I deserve better. And I did it for you.”

“Me?” he choked on his wine.

“Yes, you. I wanted you to want for nothing from the moment you took your first breath. I wanted you to not worry about anything. I wanted you safe and respected. I wanted you not to be ashamed to be with me.” The Duke finished with a hint of vulnerability in his voice. D’Artagnan found himself starting to sink into the chair under the man’s intense gaze but a distant memory of a lace fan and the pain it brought had him sitting up immediately.

“It is not I who could find myself ashamed. I am but a poor son of a former Musketeer. There are no lands that follow me, no titles to share nor riches to claim. I only come with me.”

“Then I am the richest man in the world.” The Duke purred lifting his glass up in a toast. “And I intend for you to enjoy it.” Standing up the Duke turned to end of the table where a single covered bowl rested along with what looked like soup cups and a large spoon. He removed the lid from the bowl where steam and the most delicious smell D’artagnan had ever come across wafted up to his nose. It was rich and sweet in a way he never experienced that caused his mouth to water.  
“It is Queen Anne we should thank for this little gift.” The Duke spoke as he spooned a brown liquid into the cups. The steam rose from the cups and seems to draw him in when Buckingham passed by him to set at the table. “It is called Chocolate. It was brought to Europe by the Spanish when they were pillaging other lands. It was made in Spanish monasteries with the formula kept a close secret. The only good thing the Spanish did. It is your dear Queen Anne who brought the custom of drinking chocolate to France. The aristocracy has taken to it immediately and some even feel it has medicinal benefits. My extensive travels and acquaintance with Anne has made me aware of this exotic drink before my countrymen. You could say I even was a bit instrumental in bringing the drink to England.” He finished as he pushed the cup towards the Frenchmen with a bit of cinnamon sprinkled on top.

D’Artagnan picked up the cup and inhaled deeply. He managed to bite back a moan at the pure smell of it seem to make his lips want to form a smile. A quick glance at the Duke showed the man was reclining in his chair taking sips from his own cup while watching him eagerly. Turning his attention to the cup in his hand D’Artagnan took a sip of the chocolate drink. As soon as-as the liquid touched his tongue a dark and rich taste exploded in his mouth so strongly that his body shivered and a moan of pure appreciation that was beyond scandalous escaped him. His head leaned back in till it hit the back of the chair as he let the hot liquid burn a trail of pleasure down his throat pulling another moan from him. A noise from across the table brought D’Artagnan back from the fog he had found himself in causing him to open eyes he did not know he had closed. The noise was the wild-eyed Duke who had put his cup back on the table and was now clinging to the arms of the chair as if to prevent himself from lunging across the table at the Frenchmen.

“My lord?” D’Artagnan questioned before blushing at how husky his voice was turning. The Duke obviously heard it as he inhaled sharply as the sound of nails digging into wood could slightly be heard.

“I’m fine. Please, finish your drink, my dear.” he commanded in a rough tone of voice that spoke to spoke to Gascon’s body in ways it never heard before.

A piece of D’Artagnan’s mind remembered what the Queen has said about making appreciative noises and the powers of seduction it had. Looking back down into the cup of liquid heaven and back to the Duke, he knew she had been right. Lifting the cup back up D’Artagnan slowly sipped from the cup savoring its taste with soft exhales and gentle moans while never taking his eyes off the man across from him. Once the Frenchmen got to the end of the chocolate drink he placed it back on the table and grabbed a napkin but the Duke’s hand caught his own before he could wipe his mouth.

“Let me.” Buckingham whispered before lunging forward and licking the chocolate from the corner of Gascon’s mouth. Lust pure and simple shoot from the point of touch near his mouth and swept through him until a whimper left his mouth.

“You look as if you are craving something, my lord.” he whispered.

“Oh, I am craving something alright.” He hissed as he leaned back in his chair.

“Maybe you should have another cup to satisfy your cravings.” D’Artagnan offered huskily.

“It is not chocolate that I need to satisfy me.” Buckingham’s voice deepened as he stood from his chair and made his way to where D’Artagnan sat in his chair feeling as if he was nailed to it. The Duke kneeled down in front of him so close that the Gascon could smell his earthy scent. “It is not chocolate that will make me whole. Only you. Right here. Right now.”

Without another word the Duke lunged forward and captured D’Artagnan’s lips in their first kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ben Barnes as Christopher  
> Here is a pic: http://www.indiewire.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/ben-barnes-HD-ben-barnes-5086668-1100-1650.jpg 
> 
> This is the coronet  
> http://dragonsjewels.com/crown7.jpg


	22. Chapter. 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kisses are exchanged, a meeting is held and the king hears rumors he doesn't like

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've cut the chapter in half to give you this today. Merry Christmas!

It was like someone took all the air out his lungs and replaced it with the chocolate he had consumed earlier leaving him breathless and drowning in heat and rich desire. D’Artagnan was no longer aware of the chair he was sitting on nor the airship he was in or the vows he took. All that mattered was the feel of Buckingham’s lips on his bruising and demanding and consuming as if he could take D’Artagnan’s very spirit into himself if he tried hard enough and the Gascon did his best to respond in kind. Desperate hands reached out to grab at the Englishman’s shoulders as D’Artagnan did his best to chase the taste of chocolate and something that can only be described as HIM so that he could have it with him forever. Air nor time no longer seemed to matter to either of them anymore but the feeling of lips pressing together hungry and desperate. Pulling back slightly Buckingham ran his tongue along the edge of D’Artagnan’s lips leaving the younger man whimpering and panting. A rough swipe of the tongue left D’Artagnan falling from the chair and onto the Duke’s lap from where the older man knelt on his knees before him. Large hands landed on the Gascon’s hips to settle him while firmly gripping the flesh under them almost hard enough to bruise. A low whine escaped D’Artagnan’s throat as he leaned forward desperate to feel his soulmate’s lips again, desperate for the faint touch of having a piece fall into place that the Gascon never knew that he was missing. Buckingham seemed to feel the same as a leaned forward to lick and nibble at his mate’s lips. D’Artagnan’s mother was wrong: there was nothing gentle about the kisses they shared for it was made of teeth and tongue nor was it sweet and innocent but was instead wet and heady. One of D’Artagnan’s hands moved from the Duke’s shoulder to his neck desperate to feel more skin underneath his hands. A light scrape of his nails caused the older man to surge forward until D’Artagnan was no longer in his lap but upon the floor beneath him.

He laid back on the floor breathless and whimpering as the older man leaned over him with eyes that consumed and devoured as they looked him over. If anyone else had looked at him in such a manner he might have grown nervous and defensive but here with his mate? It was like seeing and being seen after an eternity of blindness. Like breathing in the soothing fire after a forever of suffocating on winter’s chill. Slowly the Duke lowered himself until he was covering D’Artagnan’s with his body without smothering him. They laid there noses not even an inch apart just breathing in each other’s air not wanting to risk breaking the moment between them. Slowly D’Artagnan leaned up and it was here that the kisses were gentle until the fire relit in their veins making them desperate and roughly grinding into each other. So, lost they were in each other that voices outside the door did not disturb them until it escalated to pounding on the door. 

“D’Artagnan! D’Artagnan, are you alright in there? Answer me!” Aramis voice called from the other side of the banging door before he could be heard arguing loudly with someone on the other side. For a moment D’Artagnan was worried the Duke would shoot the door but instead, the older man turned back to him. 

“I would take you now, my love.” He said softly as a hand cupped D’Artagnan’s cheek gently. “I would order my men to set sail while I map all of you with my fingers and tongue. I would merge with you right here but the determination to give you the best of all thing is still with me. I would lay you on satin sheets covered in rose petals and candlelight before devouring you. Soon to the day, my darling. Soon to that glorious day.” 

D’Artagnan raised his hand until it covered the one cupping his cheek. “Until that day…my heart.” For a moment Buckingham leaned forward as if to kiss him again but instead pushed himself back onto his heels and then his feet with the grace of a cat before reaching down. D’Artagnan reached out and took the Duke’s hands rising to his feet. 

“D’Artagnan!” Aramis called in a tone of voice that once made D’Artagnan see Porthos run for cover. 

“I’m fine, Aramis. Be out in a moment.” He managed to call out while trying not to wince at how winded he sounded. The Duke smiled softly at him before rearranging his clothes that had gotten ruffled in their passion. 

“Very well,” Aramis replied after a short pause. Faintly he could hear an Englishman squawk in indignation but he paid it little mind when gentle hands were soothing his hair which has made a run for wildness. 

“You should go to him before charges the door and try to take my head. He sounds angry enough to try.” Buckingham stated as he backed away from D’Artagnan apparently finished with his work. D’Aragnan nodded in agreement and went to leave but he paused as if struck by a thought. Turning on his heel he marched quickly to where the older man was staring who perked up at his approach. D’Artagnan stopped an arm’s length away, picked up one of the cups of chocolate, took a large sip before returning it to the table and marched away. A chuckle fitted through the air before the Duke spoke again. 

“Tell your queen it was a successful meeting and I look forward to tonight.” Buckingham called out as D’Artagnan’s hand touched the door. He nodded without looking back before stepping outside where a frustrated English guard captain and a worried Aramis was waiting to meet him. His fellow Musketeer examined him with a critical eye and no doubt have noticed D’Artagan’s flushed face and kiss-swollen lips. 

“Did things go smoothly with Lord Buckingham?” Aramis asked when the younger man came to a stop before him. 

“Perfectly well and I have obtained his message for her Majesty.” He answered with the all the respect owed to a commanding officer. 

“Very well. Then let us be off to send our report to her Majesty.” Aramis gave one last glance to the door from which D’Artagnan had appeared before turning to the Captain who nodded in agreement. With must less pomp than when they arrived the two Musketeers made their way down the airship to where their horses and fellow countrymen were waiting. A quick stop to the Musketeers office to write and send off their reports rewarded them with being off for the rest of the day to prepare for the play that was to take place at the palace that night. They left with slightly heavy hearts at the acquired knowledge that the night before a fight between some English men and angry peasants. There were some injuries and minor property damage but luckily guards were there quickly to break it up. The unrulier peasants spent the night in prison and the English men were taken to the airships to be disciplined by their coming officer at best and the Duke at worst. Armed with this new knowledge the King’s Musketeers returned to the home they shared with their friends who had returned. 

“Well, see who has returned! The most loyal diplomats of the French crown! Hail the conquering-” The rest of the sentence remained unknown as Aramis had interrupted Porthos with by throwing grape down his throat. By the time the former pirate had recovered everyone had seated themselves around the table. 

“Our investigation into the airships that Buckingham have kept with him on the edge of the city and there is definitely something foul in the air.” Athos began as he refilled his cup of wine. “We found at the very bottom of the ship powder kegs that did not seem to fit with the rest. The barrels were cheap and even more cheaply painted. The powder they contained were of poorer quality than what the Duke is storing.” 

“Who would give Buckingham more powder in poorly replicated barrels?” D’Artagnan asked as he slouched in his chair. 

“Maybe someone who wants to frame the Duke? The Cardinal tried it before. It’s not too much of a reach to try it again if the conditions are ripe.” Aramis answered as he made himself a plate of the food on the table. Porthos, while still looking annoyed at the grape throwing, agreed with his friend words. 

“For a frame job the painting and powder quality was not well done. Maybe the barrels are meant to be involved in some type of attack and it just needed to look like it came from Buckingham’s stash?” Portos reasoned. While it was a sober thought all the men agreed that such a thing is a possibility. 

“We don’t need those barrels being used in bombings across the city. Especially after the fight, some peasants got into last night. It might have escaped the King’s notice, but a bombing will not and tensions in the streets are rising. We are going to have to investigate the origin of those barrels and get them moved off the Duke’s ship. We have to warm him.” D’Artagnan stated as he leaned forward onto the table and looked towards Athos. 

“Not yet,” Athos countered. “If we warn the Duke and those barrels are removed we risk tipping off the Cardinal’s spies that we know about them. Right now, we cannot afford to tip our hand until we know more about his plan. Especially if Milady is still involved.” None of the other men looked happy about it but they simultaneously agreed especially at the dark look that crossed Athos face at the mention of his treacherous soul mate. 

“Now onto other news!” Porthos exclaimed before turning on the youngest Musketeer with a smirk that made D’Artagnan flush. “What happened on the Duke’s airship?” 

“Captain Bennett greeted us on the deck of the ship. A viewed threat or two was exchanged but that was to be expected. He was rather an unpleasant fellow and we argued over every detail of the troop placement from the palace hallways during events to the guards near the three English ships that stayed on city property. In the end, we reached an agreement none of us truly liked but all could work with. I was given a tour of his airship that was swallowed by a small demonstration of his troops as a sign of friendship to King Louise and his guards. Our dear D’Artagnan here was asked to deliver a minor report to the Duke direct any messages from the queen the Duke might wish to spend. I then spent the next hour watching a demonstration with a very unhappy fellow. After about half an hour I got suspicious and asked after D’Artagnan. The captain tried to keep my attention, but I eventually went looking for our young friend here.” Aramis ended the statement with a pointed look at the Gascon who slouched in his seat under all the attention. 

“And what was our young friend doing all this time?” Porthos asked with a smirk while Porthos took a large gulp of his wine. “I do not know but he was behind a locked door and would not answer my summons at first. I was about to break the door down before he responded a bit breathlessly.” The former priest responded. 

“Well, well. Anything to share with the rest of the class, lad?” Porthos asked leaning all the way forward in his chair. 

“Porthos.” Athos cut in from his corner. 

“What?” the large man questioned. “I just want to know if our little lad is now a man!” 

“Of course, I’m a man!” D’Artagnan shouted in anger. 

“He doesn’t mean man like that, my friend. He means man as in no longer a virgin.” Aramis answered smoothly. 

“What makes you think I came to this city a virgin?” the Gascon demanded. The three older men just looked at him with cocked eyebrows making D’Artagnan slouch in his seat and grumble. 

“Well?” Athos asked as he poured the younger man a cup of wine.

“It went fine. We talked and ate.” D’Artagnan grumbled as he took a gulp of wine only to get poked in the side by Porthos who demanded details. “He came into the office after me talking about the coronet he had made for me. Buckingham has it in his office locked behind a glass cabinet. It is a spotless silver with round and square sapphires set into the metal. Set on the tips of peaks between the fleurs are sparkling pearls and…it’s mine.” D’Artagnan finished wistfully. 

“Pearls and sapphires?!?” Porthos shouted breaking D’Artagnan out of his memory. The man was looking at him with jealousy clearly written on his face. “You see each other thrice and already he is giving you pearls and sapphires?”

“Careful, my friend. Jealousy is a sin.” Aramis cut in before the Gascon could respond. 

“Jealousy is the last of sins I have to worry about, Aramis. I always wanted one of those things and now our little lad has one? This is too much. Now, I desire to hear about this coronet and I may forgive you, lad. Have you tried it on yet?” Porthos demanded. 

“No, I said I was underdressed. Buckingham preceded to flirt with me before taking notice of my…slimness. He then sat me down at the table which was covered in dishes holding wonderful delicacies from my homeland. I got him talking about himself which ended with him flirting with me again. I flirted back but it was like a kitten trying to outplay an old cat.” He complained which earned him chuckles from his friends especially Aramis. “He finished the meal with cups of chocolate for dessert.” 

“CHOCOLATE?” The men exclaimed sitting forward in their seats. 

“He truly fed you that liquid sin?” Athos demanded. 

“Yes, and liquid sin is the perfect description of it.” D’Artagnan responded face red with the memory of what happened next. 

“I have a feeling more happened than drinking chocolate. What did the sly Duke do next?” Porthos demanded. For a moment there was just silence as the three older men looked at him and the Gascon decided to get it over with. 

“Um, we. Well, we…kissed.” 

“Oh did you?” Aramis asked while doing a terrible job of hiding his smile. 

“Is that all?” Porthos asked next looking like a cat watching a bird. 

“We kissed a lot on the floor and that is all I will say it about it. Now excuse me I wish to nap before reporting to the palace for the play tonight.” D’Artagnan rushed before shooting out of his chair, leaping over the silent Athos’s legs and heading up the stairs to his room. 

“Really?” Athos deadpan asked as he turned to his fellow Musketeer’s who did not look apologetic in the slightest. 

“Yes, really. Now since he is gone we need to have a talk, Aramis, on your slacking of duties.” Porthos stated turning to the former priest. 

“My slacking of duties?” he asked outraged. 

“Yes! How could you let that sly and grump-handed Englishman have almost a whole hour with D’Artagnan? There is allowing him to go into the lion’s den and guarding the entrance and then there is allowing him to go into the lion’s dens and going to take a nap back home!” 

“I was not slacking on my duties! We all knew that Buckingham would try to get D’Artagnan alone but even I could not predict he would have been so clever at it! That tour and demonstration would have gone on until tomorrow if I let it! Besides, the lad is supposed to be seducing the Duke to soften him up. I HAD to give him some time.”

“From the way, D’Artagnan blushed it almost was to much time. I can not understate the worry I have for D’Artagnan. He is indeed a kitten trying to engage a more experienced and desperate cat. Buckingham has been dealing with have an incomplete soul bond for years and now we dangle D’Artagnan in front of him like fish on a hook. I will be only a matter of time before he pounces.”

“Let him pounce on our little lad. I’ll rip off his smug face.” Porthos hisses. 

“He is D’Artagnan’s mate, Porthos. I am pretty sure there will be some pouncing eventually.” Aramis offered to the large man who looked offended at the thought. Athos simply signed into his cup.  
______________________________________________________________________

“Excellent! Simply excellent!” The king of France exclaimed as he examined his new suit in the mirror. “This will show that English dog what fashion is!”  
“It is a splendid suit, Your Majesty.” One of the designers offered behind him.

“Simply gracious!” Another said. Nodding along at their words the king finally appeared satisfied and motion for the clothes to be removed in till he would need them for the play later. 

“Very good, very good. You are all dismissed. Wine!” King Louis waved his hands at the designers who rushed out the room in a trail of satin and silk leaving on the king and his private Stewarts, one of which approached him with wine. Taking a seat on a long couch the King leaned his head back and took a moment to relax from all the hard planning that went into making sure the country of France stood out as a beacon of culture and fashion. 

“Eammon, my good man. Have you kept your ear to the ground as I asked? What new information to there to spring?” The king asked his Stewart whom he trusted to bring him the latest gossip. 

“I have your majesty and whispers have made their way to my ears. Whispers about Englishmen fighting various peasants when they wander away from their ships. The fight started from insults and quickly to fists. It was broken up but not without some property becoming damaged.” The Stewart began.

“Those dogs dare to attack my citizens. I shall have a word with that Duke about keeping his men in line!” Louie snared.

“Excellent decision, your majesty. A few companions of the lady Eglantina were found in a corner of the gardens with two on-duty Cardinal's men last night in a compromising position. The women were dismissed, and the guards were flogged for their slacking of duty and docked pay.”

“As they should have been. My Anne did not like those ladies anyway.” The king announced. The stewart went to speak again and paused looking unsure. 

“Well?” the young king demanded.

“I beg your apologies, your grace. I just don’t know how to speak about a new rumor.” Eammon explained.

“Than do it plainly!”

“Thank you for your wisdom, Your Majesty. A rumor making its way from the servant's quarters and the palace concerning one of your Musketeers. D’Artagnan.” He began.

“What about him?” 

“Some servants saw that Buckingham took a special interest in the young man during the dinner. He was caught watching D’Artagnan intensely through the night and assisted it was him that have the security meeting aboard the ship. When it was over two longtime servants caught sight of the Duke having a private conversation with the younger musketeer that seemed…intimate despite its shortness.” Eammon explained. 

“Intimate?” The king asked completely in shock. “What else are they saying?”

“People are whispering that due to D’Artagnan’s gentle features and the Duke’s known appetite that the meeting between security forces is just an excuse for Lord Buckingham to have a secluded tryst with D’Artagnan.” 

“A secluded tryst? Truly you say?” The king shouted sitting upright and spilling some of his wine on the ground that was quickly cleaned. 

“Those are the rumors but there is no evidence to prove that the two men are knocking boots, Your Majesty.”

“No evidence of such intentions at all?” King Louis implored.

“The Duke’s interest in D’Artagnan might be true for Athos was seen keeping close to the younger man at the dinner and glared when he caught Buckingham looking.” Eammon offered.

“I would not be surprised. The Duke does have a list of conquests I’m sure he would not mind adding D’Artagnan too. He should be warned against the man’s possible intentions if Athos has not yet done so.” The king determined. 

“Excellent idea, Your Majesty, considering that some guardsmen are talking about how friendly D’Artagnan is with the other Musketeers. Of how close he is with some of them and how often he goes off on private patrols throughout the city at night with them and they sometimes come back a bit…ruffled. Allowing himself to be swept away by the Duke or having it whispered about him would not help the young Gascon’s reputation. Especially as h is under so much scrunity.” Eammon commented.

“No, it definitely will not.” The King repeated his expression extremely troubled by the news he just heard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since I have just graduated from Undergrad I have more time! So poll time.  
> Poll question: Shorter chapters that come faster or longer chapters that come out slower?

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [I Need Her More](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8390968) by [ConstantineMK](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConstantineMK/pseuds/ConstantineMK)




End file.
